


burn before you bloom

by earlylight



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, F/F, Let Alexis Rose Eat, Love is Stored in the iPhone, Slow Burn, canon remix, featuring also Ronnie/OFCs and the Throuple, rated M for literally the tiniest blink of a non-explicit sex scene, the timeline and location continuity in this town are the friends me and dan levy made along the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight
Summary: This is another glue-your-hands-to-the-wheel moment – the part where, if she goes through with this, the other shoe could drop and kick her right to the curb, or help her finally find her feet. The choice crystallises in Rachel’s mind, like a point-and-click game from when she was a kid: It’s a beautiful evening, you’ve spilt smoothie all down your ex’s old shirt, and a mysterious stranger-turned-fast-friend with a crooked smile is sitting on a motel bed, asking you for your phone. Do you hand it over?Rachel gets dumped, drives her car dry, washes up in a town with a weird name with four suitcases and no toothbrush. The rest, as they say, is history.
Relationships: Alexis Rose/Rachel
Comments: 25
Kudos: 47
Collections: Elevate! A Schitt's Creek Femslash Exchange





	1. runaway bride(s)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonlali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonlali/gifts).



> Lali, you are an absolute genius for prompting what is essentially the Rachel remix of Patrick's arc, and I really hope you enjoy it even though I got way too excited about it during a time where there is Just Like, So Much Going On, so yes, this behemoth IS unbeta'd, and barely edited, and I did in fact write the last 12k over the deadline weekend, I regret nothing and everything. So, if you see some dumb error I've made, please be gentle, I am doing my best, lol. (If you see me editing this, sneakily, over the next little while -- that's between US)
> 
> Anyway, before you dive right in, let me set the scene (and grab some headphones if you can): it’s a beautiful day for a breakup, and you hit the road with a vice grip on the wheel to keep your hands from turning back, driving to a potent mix of Taylor Swift and old-school Avril that loops for so long that it, like the miles, [almost seems to blur together…](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i0PK9PNs6d4)

_Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, and trusting them not to._

_—Unknown_

It’s late on Friday night that Rachel discovers that being exed by her now former fiancé is not the only way the universe is going to fuck with her today. With great pomp and ceremony, the silver medal goes to her odometer.

“Fuck,” Rachel says, flicking on her hazards as she coaxes her car over to the side of the road. Then, for good measure, “Fuck my _life._ ”

The air is cool on her skin as she steps out of the car, the _pops_ and _tings_ of her engine cooling off the only thing to break the stillness. It appears that, instead of quitting while she was ahead at the town she passed through a little while back, like a sensible person who has her life together, Rachel’s now stuck out in the middle of nowhere. She leans against the car for a moment, tilting her head back—away from her headlights, undiluted by the glow of any near or distant civilisation, the night sky resembles a fistful of white paint thrown at a dark wall, stars still set in sharp relief before they take on the swimmy haze of summer. Rachel throws another long, frustrated _fuuuuck!_ into the air, like—like a magician releasing a dove, except the dove is dead, so she’s just sort of sticking her hand into the hat and hurling its body out into the night. Or something like that.

She takes inventory. Car, dead. Phone, also dead; charger, buried in one of the six suitcases in the trunk, taking the bronze to complete the podium. Prospects, grim. Taking a fortifying breath, she pops the trunk to try to find that charger, because if her car battery isn’t dead (yet) she can at least get enough juice into the phone to call a local tow and… figure it out from there.

Which is where she ends up, elbows-deep in cardigans in Suitcase #4, when her trunk lights up in warm yellow as tires crunch against gravel behind her. She freezes, fumbling for her keys in her jean pockets—dying tragically on the side of a lonely highway is one way to stick it to your ex, but it is _not_ the way she wants this night to end—and spins up out of her crouch, squinting through the headlights at the silhouette stepping out of the truck in front of her, feeling the ridges of her keys press sweatily between each finger: car, parent’s house, pub—shit, she really should have returned that one—

“You doing okay over there? Need any help?” It’s a woman’s voice, and Rachel slumps a little in relief.

“Out of gas,” Rachel calls out. “If you could lend me your phone, I can call a tow—sorry, mine’s dead, that’s why I’m, um—” She arcs her arm in a wide arc to encompass the debris field of discarded clothes around her, “—I know the charger’s in here somewhere, it just doesn’t want to be found just yet.”

The stranger comes into clearer view – she’s a short (well _short_ is relative – that is to say, shorter than average, but still taller than Rachel), Black woman, close-cropped hair glinting with greys in the light, wearing a puffer vest and a calm demeanour. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll call it in for you,” she says, walking past Rachel to inspect her car. “Not many around here who’ll want to come out this late, but I got a guy in town who owes me a favour. I’d offer you the jerrycan I have in the back, but if you’ve run the engine dry it would be best to get your fuel lines checked before you hit the road again.” She completes her circuit of the car, stepping over a couple of jackets, and comes to a stop in front of Rachel, arms crossed, gaze appraising. “Where was it that you were heading to?”

“Um, I don’t actually… know,” Rachel says, a little sheepishly. “And, I mean, my phone died a little while ago, so I don’t… actually know where I am?”

“Hmm,” the woman says. “Well, you’re currently in Elm County, Ontario, not that far from the township of shit creek, which is where I’m heading back to, now.” She sticks out her hand, offering her name: “Ronnie.”

“Rachel,” she replies, automatically, clasping Ronnie’s calloused hand, and then blinks, playing that sentence back— “Shit—what?”

“We get that a lot,” comes the dry reply. “S-C-H-I-T-T, for the record. Now, a point of business—I don’t need to know who or what you’re running from, but it would be good to have a heads up if any of it is going to be following you here. I’m going to help you out, either way, but if trouble’s coming, I’d prefer to meet it head on.”

“ _Oh,_ no, it’s nothing bad,” Rachel clarifies. “I broke up with my—okay, he dumped _me,_ but, essentially, I needed to just, get away. Well, it was actually just going to be the few minutes back to my parents’ house, and then it ended up being a few _hours,_ which was a lot further than I actually intended, because I didn’t really know how to stop, until I guess my car decided for me. Sorry, uh, I’m rambling. I’m safe, you’re safe. He won’t be following me out here.”

“Well, you’ll be staying with me tonight,” Ronnie decides, after a moment. “So, if nothing else, that’s one of your problems solved. The rest can wait until morning.”

Rachel blinks, again, but this time because of the sting in the corners of her eyes. “I mean, that’s—that’s very generous of you, thank you, but I don’t want to inconvenience you—really, I can just find a roadside motel, or—”

“If that’s what you’re worrying about, driving the extra way to our local motel and back would be more inconvenient for me than putting you up for the night,” her guardian angel says, with that same dry tone. “Up to you.”

“That’s fair,” Rachel replies, a little wobbly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ronnie says. “Right. I’ll call the tow, and once you get all those clothes packed away we’ll load your cases onto the truck and head up into town.” She smiles. “And if you enjoy the name, remind me, when we’re on the way, to point out our sign.”

*

Rachel wakes up to a ceiling she doesn’t recognise, eggshell white warm-toned in morning light, and feels a quick lurch of disorientation before she remembers: no, she’s not at the apartment, because she never made it back to her parents’ place after she’d packed up her stuff. Because, once she hit the turn-off, her hands froze at the wheel and she just kept… going. Out of town, onto the highway, and now, apparently, here — a town with a weird name and even weirder sign that somehow sprouted up out of the sprawling patchwork of southern Ontario.

There’s a low muted buzz to her right, and she rolls over, clocking her phone charging on the bedside table. Fuck, there’s that lurch, again — the shitstorm she’s left behind slowly brewing on the horizon. Gingerly picking it up, Rachel assesses the damage: there’s a text from Erin, rightly pissed that she bailed on her shift last night, and a few missed calls from her parents followed by a few texts sympathetic to her feeling poorly, but advance notice would’ve been appreciated, think of poor Erin, and then several missed calls from a number with a recently reassigned contact name:

**Do Not Text**

Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine, I get it

But can you at least call your parents

I covered for you but they need to know what’s going on and that you’re okay.

**Do Not Text**

You don’t have to talk to me, but just tell them at least so I can know.

I know we said some things last night that were hard to reconcile with but you were right too

That this is just a cycle we go through

And we always work through it eventually

Even if we need to take some time apart I never wanted you to leave—

Rachel stops reading after that, because it’s too fucking tempting to write back, to go _sorry, I’m fine, I didn’t mean to make you worry,_ or a snippy _YOU were the one who wanted a ‘clean break’ and now it’s ‘time apart’, revisionist history much??_ or even an olive branch, a _well bud guess we’ll see if you’ll catch me on the plane with the missing phalange,_ but either way to slide back into a conversation that would inevitably lead her right back to where she started. _You are a Khaleesi_ , she tells herself, taking a slow breath as she taps out of the message thread. _You are breaking the wheel._ Her instincts, to screw her turn signal to the sticking place, were right—even if the execution wasn’t all that great.

“Hey, mom,” she says, softly, sliding out of bed and walking over to the window, stepping around combined haphazard mess of her suitcases and boxes of someone else’s stuff strewn across the carpet — Ronnie had mentioned something about a cousin who used to stay in this room, a long while back – “Sorry about last night. I really should’ve called ahead.”

Rachel cracks the blinds as her mother’s voice comes through, flooding into the room with the sunlight, warm and a little scratchy at her ear. _“Oh, sweetie, no, I hope you’re feeling better. I’m sorry for being snippy over text last night, you can’t help when a bug comes and knocks you down. And don’t worry about Erin, you’ve certainly covered for her enough times that I think she can take this one in stride. Look, why don’t you come over later and have some soup, I’m making a fresh loaf this morning, if you’re still feeling off I think it will do some real good.”_

The scene outside her window is like any other small town street, enough that Rachel could even pretend that it’s her own, that nothing has changed at all—that she could hang up on this call and walk back to the house, find her mother in the kitchen making sourdough and fold herself into her arms, like all the other times she’s suddenly found herself single in the seemingly endless off-on cycle that has been her love-life for the past decade and change. “About that,” Rachel says, and hesitates. This is another fork at the road, another glue-your-hands-to-the-wheel moment: buy into the lie, and make it back home in time to sell it—or commit to the truth. She takes another breath, letting it out slowly. “Can you—is dad around?"

_“He’s just in the garden—honey, can you come here for a moment, it’s just—yes, Rachel’s on the line—he’s here, we’ve got you on speaker now, Rach.”_

“So I’m actually—I’m not at the apartment right now,” Rachel says, slowly. “I think I’m going to be out of town for a bit. I’m really sorry I didn’t give you any warning, it was a kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, so I think Erin is going to be mad at me for a while, but, I hope you guys won’t be. I know Skyler from Oak Street could take over my beat, she helped run the beer garden up at Springsong on the Lake and I know she’s after something more permanent—”

_“Rach, where are you? Did something happen? Did you and—“_

“We broke up,” Rachel confirms. “It’s not—I’m okay, don’t blame him, it’s nothing he did, it just wasn’t working. It hasn’t been working, for a while now, and I just need some space, for now. For a bit. I’m sorry. I’m fine, I’m safe, please don’t worry, this is just something I need to do, for me, and I hope you can understand that.”

They protest, talking over each other, various permutations of _Rachel, are you sure you want to,_ and _should think this through, honey, there’s really no need for,_ and _we can talk to him, I’m sure this is nothing we can’t fix if we all put our heads together,_ because Rachel has two brothers who have flown the coop and she was meant to be the exception, ol’ reliable Rachel, the one who stayed and stayed and _stayed—_

There’s a soft knock at Rachel’s door, and she takes the out. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” she cuts in. “We can talk later, alright? Um, and just, can you let him know? That I’m okay. Love you.” She hangs up and opens the door to find Ronnie on the other side.

“Morning,” Ronnie says. She’s wearing what appears to be baseball attire, _Bob’s Garage_ emblazoned blue on white, looking fit and fresh and ready to seize the day—everything that Rachel is decidedly not, at the present moment, with crazy morning hair and whatever clothing vaguely suitable for bedwear she’d managed to dig out of a suitcase last night. “Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, just letting my parents know I’m alive,” Rachel replies, with a barely suppressed sigh. “Thanks so much for letting me stay the night, and the charger, and for getting my car sorted, and the toothbrush, and—okay, just, an overall thank you, for everything, I really appreciate it, like, anything I can do to repay you, you name it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ronnie says, “Because while on any other day I would just say it was my pleasure—and don’t get me wrong, it still is—something’s just come up, so I’ve got a proposition I’m really hoping you’ll say yes to.” Ronnie leads her into open kitchen-dining area that she’d only glimpsed last night – rich yellow wallpaper making the royal blue curtains pop, accented with grey and brown tones, leafy plants, decorated tastefully with what appear to be an eclectic mixture of local art pieces and those from further afield. There’s a bright red lamp next to the couch. It’s _awesome._

“Sorry,” Rachel says, realising Ronnie has been saying something she totally missed while nerding out about Ronnie’s interior design choices, “Can you repeat that last bit, I just—your house is _amazing_.”

“Always the tone of surprise,” Ronnie says, dryly, “That a woman who builds things for a living could carve out a pretty decent space for herself.” But she’s smiling, and holds up a finger as Rachel starts to stutter out another apology. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m just yanking your chain. I appreciate someone with an eye for good taste, I’ll give you the full tour later. Right now, what I need from you is whether you’ve ever played baseball, or even just successfully thrown and caught a ball at some point in your life, and would you be willing to step in for a game?”

“Oh, sure! Absolutely, no problem at all,” Rachel replies, after a beat. “High school softball, and I’ve subbed in a couple times for my fian—um, for my—for a local team. I mean, I’m no Doris Sams, but I can hold my own.”

“Perfect,” Ronnie says. “Because I just got off a call with the son of one of our infielders, who apparently got stomach flu in the last five minutes, so congratulations, you’re our new shortstop. I’ll drop off a spare jersey in your room. Don’t have any pants on hand, so anything you got’ll have to do.” She gestures to the bench next to the stovetop, where a plate with a tea towel draped over its contents is sitting. “I whipped up some pancakes that were intended to sweeten the deal, but now you’re in, consider them fuel. Or, if you’re gluten free, we’ll pick something up on the way instead.”

“Wait, you mean—this morning? Now?”

“Wheels up in fifteen,” Ronnie replies. “Hence the pancakes. I know, it’s very last minute, but Carl can barely remember to send a text when he’s _well_ , so, here we are. Unless you had other plans for today…?”

“Nope,” Rachel says, quirking a smile. “But I guess I do now.”

*

Ronnie’s team is sponsored by Bob’s Garage—the place where Rachel’s car is currently being serviced—and their game today is against the Wobbly Elm, which is apparently the local bar. Rachel gets a whirlwind introduction to her teammates before they take to the field: Jackie and Phil, a pair of red-headed fraternal twins who, aside from the hair, could not look less alike, are her fellow infielders alongside the blonde, elfin Jessica; Rick, loud and cheerful to Stevie’s sardonic reserve, and Cory, Ronnie’s cousin and heir apparent to the boxes in her spare room, are on the outfield; in the battery, Ronnie pitches, and the mayor of this town, one Roland Schitt, who very exuberantly pumps her hand and welcomes her to their ‘humble town’, plays catcher. It becomes pretty clear early on in the game that there are no Doris Sams on either side here—overall, Bob’s Garage has better players, but the pitcher for the Wobbly Elm is easily the MVP—but it’s a beautiful day, and as Rachel cracks a decent shot off past the Elm’s shortstop and races their left-fielder back to home, her mind feels clearer than it has been in a long time, cloudless and bright all the way to the horizon.

“Well, it looks like Carl can finally retire,” Ronnie crows, slinging an arm around Rachel as they finish the game on a narrow win, Bob’s Garagians wooping and cheering around them. “Our new shortstop is here to stay. I need the boxes out of that room, Cory, you’ve got until the end of the week.”

Rachel laughs, ducking her head, as Cory good-naturedly protests. “I mean, I don’t know, I haven’t really decided—”

“Oh, there’s no way we’re letting you join another team,” Jackie cuts in, grinning toothily, as Phil nods at her side. “I’ve already decided—the Bob’s Garage infield is going to be the Ring of Fire.” She pauses, looking around expectantly, and then pulls at one of her ringlets sticking out at all angles from under her _Bob’s Garage_ cap. “You know, ‘cause of the hair.”

“Wow, guys, totally uncool to leave out Jess,” Cory admonishes, as Jessica pipes up—or, well, down—that she is happy to be an honorary member of the Ring of Fire, and the group peels off, still cheerfully arguing, towards a set of picnic tables.

Stevie, at Rachel’s other side, makes a disparaging noise. “Yeah, except you’ve been trying to get Carl to retire for years. The man is fully prepared to die and be buried under the mound.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Ronnie replies. “Or, in this case, a—” She stops, suddenly, and Rachel follows her gaze over to one of the barbecues which Rick is trying in vain to get started, another man tucked right up against his hip and making anxious gesticulations at whatever Rick is fiddling with. “Rick,” she says, sharply, “how long has Mr. Mason been watching our game.”

Rachel feels tense, for a moment, locked into Ronnie’s side—she’d thought Ronnie was—but there’s Roland over there at the other grill with his wife, and if Ronnie’s only got a problem with Rick and this other guy, then… but Rick is smiling, totally at ease, and replies, “He’s only here for the barbecue,” slinging an arm around the newcomer’s waist. The guy, looking a lot more nervous under Ronnie’s scrutiny, nods quickly, and adds, “I didn’t see anything, Ronnie, Scout’s honour.”

“I better not see any of our strategies in play next week,” Ronnie warns him, and then turns back to Rachel. “Inter-team romance,” she says, conspiratorially. “These kids are playing with fire. Speaking of, I should take over before both Rick and his boyfriend go up in flames, excuse me.”

Rachel lets out a quick breath, feeling almost weird about her relief at the misunderstanding being resolved. “So, they’re an item?” she asks Stevie, who has since retrieved beers for both of them, and a bag of chips to split while the grills start up. The bottle is cool in her grip, condensation a welcome balm to the slight chafe on her palms from the bat, and the chips, while somewhat stale, are well-seasoned enough by hunger to really hit the spot.

“It’s new,” Stevie replies. “Danny plays for the Café Tropical team. Ronnie’s very protective of her strategies, which is ironic, since as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, we don’t really… follow any of them. More of a, call ‘em when you see ‘em kinda approach.”

Rachel huffs out a laugh. “I did gather that. It’s just—it’s refreshing that the problem here isn’t that it’s two guys, but that one of the guys might snitch to his team our big secret no-strategy strategy.”

“Yeah,” Stevie replies. She tips her beer up to the sky, sunlight sparkling through it, and takes a long pull. “So, I’m guessing it isn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows for the Ricks and Dannys back where you’re from, huh.”

“I mean, no,” Rachel says. And then, “Well, I don’t know. Maybe. We get a lot of tourists coming off the lake during the summer – like, pleasure boats, that sort of thing – and everyone’s so used to gossiping about the out-of-towners that once you hit the off-season you’re in need of some more juice to fuel the rumour mill, so to speak. So, anything that happens, you get a lot of eyes on it. I don’t think it would be an issue, I mean, it’s not that we don’t get, um, gay people passing through, but, people would talk, you know? It’s not fun being under that kind of scrutiny, even if it’s not actively hostile. Priorities here are different, I guess, and it’s nice.” She takes a beat. “Like, almost scarily nice. I honestly keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Stevie _mms_ in agreement, swirling her beer lazily. After a moment, she says, “This town has been changing since the roses arrived. People have become like, aggressively welcoming. In a way that is both deeply unsettling and impossible to escape unscathed. I mean, I used to put as much distance from people as possible, and I’m now participating in a _team sport,_ and Ronnie’s one of the people on my end of the spectrum and she’s practically adopted you at this point. So, basically, you either need to get out now or be prepared for a lot more where that came from.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Rachel replies, wondering vaguely how a spruced-up garden situation could impact a whole town’s mindset. Flower power, indeed.

“Though, if you do decide to not to run straight for the hills, there’s actually a tailgate tonight, if you’re interested,” Stevie continues. “And I’m not just saying that because my ride’s bailed and I have reliable intel that you’ve got a car over at the actual Bob’s Garage that should be fixed up by this evening. But I’m also not _not_ saying that, so.”

“Wow, this really is like the opposite of my town,” Rachel says, lips curving up into a smile. “I mean, word still travels fast, but in a good way? But yeah, I—screw it, I’m in.”

Stevie smiles. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Rachel repeats, and then there’s a silence that toes the line of awkward before she goes, “Oh! I should give you my—give me your phone, I’ll put my number in, so we can coordinate times.”

“Yeah, so, these pants don’t have pockets, because that would definitely be _too_ convenient,” Stevie says. “My phone is actually in my car. I mean, you can just call the Schitt’s Creek motel. I work reception, and, trust me, the line won’t be busy.”

“It’s fine, take mine,” Rachel says, wiggling her phone out of the side pocket of her grey running tights, thumbing the home key to unlock it before handing it over to Stevie. “I mean, if I’m not running for the hills, this exchange would happen eventually, right?”

“If you’re sure you’re ready to venture on the path of no return,” Stevie says, but taps in her number anyway before handing the phone back to Rachel. “Also, this is obviously none of my business, but whoever ‘Do Not Text’ is? They don’t seem to be getting the memo.” Rachel sighs, inwardly, as Stevie hops off the table. “Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I am starving, and there are one or several hotdogs over there with my name on them, so…”

There’s a clear invitation somewhere in there for her to tag along, but putting that into words doesn’t seem to be Stevie’s style. “Oh, no, I’m vegetarian, so none of this is for me,” Rachel says, waving her on. “The chips are enough for now. I figure I’ll grab something later if I’m still hungry.”

Rachel watches her go, rejoining the cluster of their teammates grouped around Roland’s grill—Ronnie seems to have since given up salvaging Rick and Danny’s station, and bequeathed it to the Wobbly Elm crew, who appear to have gotten it up and running, and managed to draw in Phil, Jackie, and another guy in plainclothes with an arm around her waist. As Roland serves Stevie up her first ‘dog, he laughs raucously at some comment Ronnie makes, his wife giggling at his side – Jessica leans into another, even taller, stranger, gesticulating animatedly to Cory with a plate in imminent danger of spilling all of its contents. Rick and Danny, having claimed one of the picnic tables as their own, talk quietly, holding hands across the table. If Rachel had one of her cameras here, she’d snap a picture of the scene, of happiness in a bottle, poured generously out into a sun-kissed late spring day—she pulls up her phone instead, because the camera still does a decent job in daylight, and is confronted with several notifications from Do Not Text.

**Do Not Text**

Your parents called

Said you wanted them to tell me you’re okay

They also don’t get why you’re not telling me this yourself, it’s not like you lost my number

I mean the fact that you told them to pass that message on still means you’re reading these

For now at least

**Do Not Text**

I’m sorry, that was passive aggressive

It’s just like

Like we had the fight and then I went to a client and when I came back all that was left of you in our apartment was your key and the ring

And your toothbrush I guess, though I don’t know if that was intentional

I guess it just doesn’t feel real

I always thought—

“Hey, look at you holding court over here,” comes a low, husky voice Rachel doesn’t recognise, and she jerks her head up from her phone to find the Wobbly Elm’s pitcher, and ostensibly their captain, standing in front of her, bearing two hotdogs and a brilliant smile. “Rachel, isn’t it? Mind if I join you? No woman should be an island.”

“Please,” Rachel replies, grateful for the distraction from the cold lump percolating in her stomach from reading that text chain. She gestures to the bench beside her, pushing her phone back into her pocket. “You’re the captain, right? You’ve got a killer curveball.”

“It gets the job done,” she agrees, easing down onto the bench and setting her plates aside. She relaxes back against the table with a contented sigh, muscled arms stretching with it – up close, she’s like _Firefly’s_ Zoë Washburn meets Ripley from _Alien_ , built tall and strong, tight curls spilling elegantly over warm, dark skin. “But, yes, captain and owner of the Wobbly Elm. Christina, but everyone calls me Chris,” she continues, and then nods towards one of the plates. “One of these is for you, actually, if you’d like it.”

“Rachel,” Rachel blurts out, before remembering Chris had literally greeted her with her own name like ten seconds ago. “Um, and I’m vegetarian, so I can’t have that. But, thank you. Sorry.”

Chris shrugs, easy. “Hey, no sweat, shortstop. More protein for me.”

“Not that you need it,” Rachel says, without thinking, and then, “Oh my god, I’m sorry, we have literally just met, that was a _very_ weird thing to say—”

“You’re cute,” Chris replies, chuckling, and Rachel laughs weakly back. Though she prides herself on being able to hold a decent conversation with pretty much anyone, there’s something about confident, larger-than-life women that has always made Rachel feel like she has six of her feet in her mouth. It’s probably got to do with the fact that she is very small, and not particularly bold, and has never in her life managed a pull-up.

“Ronnie was lucky to scoop you up for the game, today,” Chris is saying, waving over at Ronnie over at the far grill, who is now eyeing their table with guarded look. _Secret no-strategy strategies,_ Rachel thinks, venturing what she hopes is a reassuring smile and a wave of her own. “I’m guessing we both got the same call this morning. Stomach flu’s a bitch. Carl’s son Riley is one of our bartenders, so instead of visiting my niece I’m gonna have to step in this evening for his shift since no one else can make it short notice.” She sighs, and then tucks into the first hotdog. “Was kinda hoping that we could at least pull up a win today,” she says, between mouthfuls, “but your last-minute lucky shot means I’m zero for two. ‘Least these are good. You’re missing out.”

“It was a lucky shot,” Rachel agrees. “Um, but my parents run a pub, back where I’m from—well, they don’t anymore, they’re kind of semi-retired, but they still own the place, and I basically grew up working there, and I’ve been tending bar pretty much since I was legally able to do so. Like, not just beers and house wine, I make cocktails too, I wouldn’t venture to say I’m a mixologist but I’m still pretty good at it.” Chris just looks at her, chewing slowly on the last of the hotdog, and Rachel realises that, through all her awkward rambling, she hasn’t actually articulated her offer. A flush burns at the back of her neck. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, I can help out at the bar this afternoon so you can go see your niece, if you want. Make it up to you for my lucky shot.”

Chris breaks into a smile. “You know what, I just might take you up on that. At least, for a few hours, and then I’ll tag you out for the rest of the night. Swing by the Elm at three and I’ll see what you’ve got – I’m looking for someone to take over a few shifts, anyway, so, if this goes well, we could be seeing a lot more of each other.” She glances to the side, and her smile widens, as she adds, “Ronnie can get you the address.”

Rachel follows her gaze to—Ronnie, now standing over them, arms crossed and expression disdainful. “You better not be trying to poach my new star player.”

“Hey, pitching’s what I do,” Chris replies, dryly, and stands up – now, towering over Ronnie, she gives her an amiable pat on the shoulder. “You should try it, sometime.”

Ronnie scoffs. “Bold words, coming from the losing captain.”

“And I meant every one of them,” Chris replies, winking over at Rachel. “I’ll see you later.”

Ronnie shakes her head, watching Chris narrowly as she rejoins her team, then turns to Rachel. “What was that all about?”

 _I could ask you the same thing,_ Rachel thinks, but says instead, “I think I just got a job? Or, at least, a trial run for a job.”

“Worse places you could work than that joint, I suppose,” Ronnie says, helping herself to the hotdog that Chris left behind. “That place was a total dive before she took it over, and now it’s halfway-reputable. Don’t be fooled by her lack of leadership skills on the pitch – she’s a good boss. Might be good for you.” It kind of surprises Rachel – with the steely tension in the air before, she could’ve sworn they were rivals. “So, good,” Ronnie continues, after a few bites, “‘Cause once Cory gets his crap out of your room, I gotta start charging you rent. I mean, if you want to look for other places around town, be my guest, but I can guarantee the room you’re in now will still be a far better deal than any of the other rooms you’ll find. Though, don’t expect pancakes every morning.”

“That’s—um,” Rachel starts, with a sudden thick swell of emotion. Being aggressively welcomed is something she could really get used to. “Yes, I think, I’d like to stay with you. At least, for a little while. If that’s okay. Thank you.”

“Mm-hm, now go fraternise with the enemy,” Ronnie replies. “But remember, at the end of the day, you’re on my team.”

*

The Wobbly Elm, a squat, white-brick building situated at the very edge of town, is small but relatively clean and warmly lit, furnished in the kind of kitsch Rachel is used to from back home; wooden fixings, pool table set too close to the darts board for people to engage in both at the same time, wall ‘art’ ranging from cool (a ‘halfie’ acoustic guitar) to questionable (a deeply emaciated mounted bass), a community noticeboard, including a poster advertising a battle of the bands that took place two weeks ago (held in the ‘speakeasy’ out the back), a collection of random curios scattered over the shelves behind the bar, cheery polaroids of strangers taped to the beer fridge. Chris introduces her to Casey, who’s been pulling double duty in the front and back of house, and, satisfied that Rachel can operate both a register and a beer tap, fix some common well drinks (“ _six-fifty at happy hour for those plus house wine and craft beer, and twelve for pitchers”_ ), and knows where the fire exits are, leaves her to it, with a promise to be back at seven and that she’ll give Ronnie – who insisted on dropping Rachel off herself and is waiting outside in case this, quote, _doesn’t work out, on whichever end –_ the ‘all clear’ on her way out.

The Saturday afternoon crowd are mostly bikers, who order a round of beers and whatever fried monstrosity Casey brings out of the kitchen, tip well, and keep to themselves, before the average age of the patrons takes a cool dip with the onset of happy hour. It’s nice to do something familiar, keep her hands busy fixing drinks instead of checking her phone, even though it, too, stays quiet – she texts Stevie during a lull to confirm the pickup time, and brings up the clash between the two captains that she’s found herself in the middle of, just to try to coax this line of communication into some kind of friendship: Stevie responds, after a minute, with a meme of Rosa from _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ holding a puppy, white text declaring her RONNIE and the puppy YOU, and ‘RONNIE’ saying _“I’ve only had ~~Arlo~~ RACHEL for a day and a half, but if anything happened to ~~him~~ HER I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.”_

Chris does come back, as promised, at seven on the dot, and takes her up to Bob’s Garage on the back of her motorbike, while Rachel does her best through the adrenaline to hold her waist in a totally chill and normal way and hope Chris doesn’t feel her heartbeat hammering through her back. Bob himself, very enthused about his namesake team winning today’s game, not only nipped back to the garage after-hours to return her car, but also gives her a generous discount on the laundry list of repairs he carried out (which Rachel has the good sense to feel embarrassed about – she was _going_ to take it in to get serviced, there was just, a lot going _on_ ). Following Stevie’s instructions, she swings by the local roadside motel where she works, a long, drab white building with MOTEL in faded red lettering across the front – Rachel is secretly quite pleased at her decision to stay at Ronnie’s rad, airy house instead – and they make their way to the tailgate.

Once Rachel parks and she and Stevie head into the already lively crowd – scattered around in pockets astride various coolers of drinks, rickety trestle tables, and a firepit that a group of townies are trying in vain to get started – they’re immediately clocked by a pretty girl in a blue sundress, who cheerily waves them over. “Oh, you must be Rachel!” she says, brightly. “Stevie said you’re staying with Ronnie. It’s nice to have a new face around here.”

“Once again, my reputation precedes me,” Rachel jokes. “It’s nice to meet you…”

“Twyla,” she supplies, with a sunny smile. “I work at the café. Café Tropical, on the main strip. You should come for breakfast – we have killer waffles.”

“Literally, they might kill you,” Stevie says, _sotto voce_. To Twyla, she asks, “No Alexis tonight?”

“She has homework,” Twyla replies. “Gosh, I really don’t miss that about high school. What about David, I thought you and him and Jake were all going to come together?”

“David is having a minor meltdown about his new business venture and went to Jake’s to, quote, ‘take some distance from the situation and reassess’,” Stevie says. “Which, usually I can relate to, but being a sober driver was not part of my plan for tonight. So, yes, he _is_ dead to me, and my good friend Rachel is my ride for this evening.”

“It must be so exciting, being in a throuple,” Twyla enthuses. “Having all those different combinations, I bet it’s never boring.”

“I’m sorry, a _throuple?_ ” Rachel asks, instantly curious. “Like, a, a three-way couple?”

Stevie, looking vaguely cornered, mutters something that is drowned out by Twyla launching into a cheery explanation. “Yeah, see, Stevie’s dating Jake, and Jake is dating David,” she says, counting out on her fingers. A small crease appears between her brows. “And David is—are you and David dating again, Stevie? Or is that more of a friends with—”

“Okay, who wants drinks?” Stevie says loudly. “I’m getting drinks. And if I don’t come back, it’s because I’ve found better friends.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Rachel asks, feeling a little gnaw of worry at her gut. “I’m so—sometimes I get excited or nervous and speak before I think and, augh—I shouldn’t be making excuses, should I go after her?”

But Twyla is still smiling, looking out towards where Stevie has disappeared into the crowd. “No, you’re fine! Stevie’s just… Stevie. That’s not her angry, she’s not actually _not_ going to come back.” Twyla looks thoughtful for a second, mouthing _not actually not,_ then, “Yeah. She’ll be back. Honestly, I think I shouldn’t have brought up the David thing, though. Maybe they’re still working out the kinks? But tell me about you! What brought you to Schitt’s Creek?”

“A guy,” Rachel replies, ruefully, “Or, more like, getting away from a guy. Trying to start afresh. I actually drove all the way here from—” And then she hears a guitar being strummed behind her in a very familiar chord progression: E minor on the seventh into G, D suspended fourth into A dominant seventh suspended fourth… “Oh _no,_ ” she says, delighted, turning around to spot a gangly dude with a manbun and a battered acoustic guitar perched on a crate within a loose circle of onlookers – an oasis within the party, bringing some Oasis to the party.

“Is there something wrong?” Twyla is asking, as Rachel fishes out her phone to get a five second grab.

“No, it’s just—every time you go to a party, if there’s ever some dude with a guitar, you’re gonna get Wonderwall,” Rachel replies, somewhat distractedly, as she captions her clip _like what you’ve done with your hair_ before pressing send. “I don’t know, it just—it gets me, every time. Like some kind of universal constant. I’ve basically started collecting them.”

A _hey, shortstop!_ cuts through the _and all the roads we have to walk are wiiiiiinding,_ Rick appearing around the other side of the circle with Jessica on his arm, both of them looking fresh out of their baseball gear – Rick in a colourful printed shirt and chinos, Jessica in a fitted skirt and loose crop. “Where’re your other halves?” Rachel calls out, grinning, as they approach. “Busy writing up all our strategies to leak to our rival team?”

Rick laughs. “Oh, definitely. Nah, Danny’s not much one for parties, so I’m here with the next best thing.” He twists around for a moment, and yells out, “Hey, babe, can you grab me a Lite?” as Rachel glimpses Cory, a little way back into the crowd, handing a beer over to a short, curvy woman in overalls – without even looking over, he flips them off. “He loves it when I try to sabotage his game,” Rick continues, grinning. “Makes him work harder.”

“And I’m here too,” Jessica says, dryly, elbowing Rick until he disengages. “Darryl’s got an early start tomorrow up at the farm, and it looks like I’m in the market for a new replacement date for tonight, so, c’mere Twy! Missed you at yoga last week.”

“Sorry! Jazzagals practice went long,” Twyla says, as she’s folded into a hug. “You know, Rachel, if you’re planning on sticking around here, you should join us! It’s a social choir with some of the ladies from town, and it sounds like you have a lovely voice, you’d make a great addition to the group.”

Rachel hadn’t even realised she was quietly harmonising along to Manbun’s reedy voice and clicks her mouth right shut. “Uh, no, I don’t really do singing,” she hedges, with an awkward chuckle. “In public. With other people. It’s a whole, um, thing.”

“Tonight, you can make an exception,” Rick decides, and pulls her into the now-swaying circle around Manbun, one arm around her waist and the other waving his phone above his head. “ _And after aaaalllll—_ ” he caterwauls, loud and terribly offkey, driving Rachel into fits of laughter, “ _You’re my Wonderwaaaalllll…”_

Until there’s a buzz in Rachel’s pocket.

**Do Not Text**

Hahahaha

Thanks, my spring lookbook is hipster Fabio

It takes her a moment, trying to figure out the context, but then – “Shit,” Rachel says, blood running cold, and immediately turns off her phone, shoving it as deep as she can into her jeans as though she can hide from it—it doesn’t go very deep, stupid girl jeans and their tiny, tiny pockets. “ _Shit._ ” She did it. Stone cold sober, and she broke her Do Not Text rule. All because of a stupid inside joke, just running on autopilot—of course it was fucking _Wonderwall_ that was going to betray her—

“Drinks!” Stevie declares, evidently back after being unable to find better friends, and a lukewarm root beer is pressed into Rachel’s hands. Rachel blinks at it, for a moment, and then tucks it under her armpit and stumbles after Stevie, leaving Rick to continue his truly awful karaoke as a solo artist.

“Stevie, how much will you hate me if I have to leave right now,” Rachel asks her, feeling very wild around the edges. By Stevie’s expression, she looks it, too.

“No, it’s cool, turns out I have a backup ride,” Stevie says, after a beat, “In whatever sense of the term you want to, uh, take that,” and jerks a thumb backwards over her shoulder to a tall, bestubbled lumberjacky-kinda guy chatting with Jess and Twyla—who could possibly be Jake or David, depending on context and throuple mechanics. “Are you… okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, kind of,” Rachel replies, already backing away. “Mostly. I just need to go? If that’s okay with you. Sorry!”

Ronnie’s house is dark and quiet when she lets herself in with the spare key Ronnie had palmed her earlier; she doesn’t turn on any of the lights, leaning against the front door and just breathing for a bit until her eyes adjust to the gloom before making her way quietly to her new room. Then, after clicking her door closed, she promptly undoes all of her good work when she trips over the half the shit on her floor in a sequence of stubbed toes, muffled curses and flailing arms before half-falling onto her bed. The juddering knock of an ankle against the frame is the final straw—tears sting angrily at the corners of her eyes, and Rachel just buries her face into her pillow and doesn’t resist them. She lets herself cry – for ten years and change, for things said and unsaid, for how fucking pathetic it is for her to _be_ crying over sending a text, like, objectively.

And that’s what starts to calm her down, wet huffs into her pillow reducing down into slow, controlled breaths. Because it _is_ kind of ridiculous. It’s a text. Empires did not rise and fall over iMessage. _I’m here,_ she thinks, pressing her nose into the damp fabric, _He’s there. It’s different this time. It’s going to be different._

*

It’s halfway through brushing her teeth in the shower that Rachel’s morning brain comes online, nearly causing her to choke on her toothbrush as it does. She lingers longer in the shower to avoid what she knows she has to face when she leaves its comforting watery embrace, before realising that using up all the hot water would _not_ make a good impression on her new roommate-slash-landlord – so she reluctantly steps out, dries off, and, wrapped securely in her towel, goes to face the music.

 _It’s just one text. It’s not a big deal,_ she reminds herself, as she powers up her phone. As the Apple logo fades, however, instead of what she’s steeled herself to deal with – just a slew of texts from her ex now that she’s reopened the conversational faucet – her phone starts buzzing out of her hands as an army of notifications from various points of origin start marching in. A few texts from Stevie in a row – _hey hope everything was alright last night; twy thought you might be worried about the throuple thing but dw it’s fine; i basically forced you into being my ride so we’re even –_ are quickly shuffled down the queue as Facebook and Instagram banners come through, telling Rachel she’s been tagged in various posts. She taps on the first one she sees, a comment from Rick going _@rachelrunswild we make a cute couple ;)_ which brings up a video on the Instagram page of one Jeremiah Jameson, evidently the Wonderwall guy from last night – and behind him, laughing and swaying along with the rest of the circle, her and Rick, his arm around her waist and her leaning into it. Looking _coupley._

“Shit,” Rachel says, scrolling through the rest of her notifications. “Fucking… _fuck._ ” There’s lot from people back home, and she forces herself to just look at names, not let her eyes catch and hold on any of the content – missed calls from her parents, missed calls from the _Brewers_ , fuck, and, of course:

**Do Not Text**

Hey, hope you’re doing okay

Don’t check facebook

I’m running damage control re: Siobhan

It’ll blow over soon

Just

Yeah

Keep away from socials

Turning on the phone was a mistake. The phone stays _off._ The phone should only ever function as a very expensive paperweight that fits into none of her pockets because of the patriarchal clothing industrial complex, or whatever. Rachel pulls on some clothes blindly, grabbing yesterday’s exercise pants and sports bra off the floor and a random t-shirt from her open suitcase, nearly tripping over one of the boxes hopping on one foot as she yanks on a sock, and then, pulling her hair into some semblance of a ponytail, skids out into the dining area – only immediately to nearly collide with a chair at the sight of Chris, wearing only a blue silk bonnet, a pair of flannel boxers and Ronnie’s _Bob’s Garage_ jersey, leaning casually at the kitchen counter with a steaming mug in hand.

“Hey, shortstop,” Chris says, smiling slowly. “Coffee? I just made a pot.”

This is too much information for her overloaded brain to process at the present time. “No, thank you, I’m running,” Rachel babbles, “I’m going for a run, sorry, thank you, goodbye!”

She makes short work of the first few blocks, and then the next few blocks make short work of her, because she’s not doing any measure of proper breathing and coordinating it with her running in any kind of functional way. Spotting a sign across the main strip of town that sparks a vague sense of familiarity amongst the swirling vortex of bees that currently inhabit her brain, stumbles towards it.

“Twyla, I need those killer waffles,” Rachel says, collapsing into a seat at the bar at the Café Tropical. “I need them to kill me.”

“Um, okay!” Twyla says. “Coming right up!” There’s a pause, and when Rachel looks up, Twyla is giving her a look like she’s just found a potentially rabid raccoon caught in a catflap, and she’s unsure of how best to approach the situation. “Would you… maybe like a drink, with that? I’m making a smoothie, I can double up if you’d like one too.”

Rachel realises she’s still breathing like some sort of asthmatic seal, half-exertion, half-possible anxiety attack, one hundred percent deeply concerning to everyone around her. She’s probably drawing attention – customers trading glances, whispering, stares needling into her back – no, pulling the brakes on that train of thought, she needs to _calm down._ “Yeah,” she manages, “That would be, thank you.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she focuses on the white noise of the blender, breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth, calm, collected, let’s be normal in this public place.

Rachel blinks her eyes open at the sound of a glass being placed in front of her. “If you’re not into joining the Jazzagals, I do run a yoga class,” Twyla offers, with a hesitant smile. “We do meditation and breathing exercises too. I know that some people who find it really helpful for anxiety. Not that I’m assuming anything! That’s just something people have told me.”

“Thanks, Twy,” Rachel replies, dredging up a smile from somewhere. “That does sound nice.” Twyla smiles at her, sunshine back on full beam, and ducks out onto the floor to do her rounds. Rachel slurps at her smoothie – which is green, and she can’t necessarily identify a flavour profile other than, well, ‘green’ – until the chef comes out of the kitchen, setting Rachel’s waffles on the counter in front of her. Stevie wasn’t wrong – if not actually killing her, there’s enough whipped cream on top to probably send her into a sugar coma, so Rachel wields her fork like a shovel poised at her own grave and digs right in.

Twyla picks up where they left off once she’s back at the bar. “So, I can add you to the yoga Facebook group, if you’re—sorry, did I say something…” she says, trailing off as Rachel makes a face, setting her fork back down on her plate.

“ _No,_ no, it’s just… there’s some stuff happening on Facebook right now that I’m trying not to think about,” Rachel replies, letting out a long, slow exhale. She’s halfway through the waffles (though avoiding the majority of the whipped cream mountain) and it does seem that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you calmer – at least enough to have this conversation outside of her own head. “It’s, um. You remember Wonderwall, from last night? So, there’s a video of that circulating with me and Rick in the background, and it looks kind of. Coupley. And I’m guessing it somehow made its way through whatever channels to reach people in my hometown, which is now informing them that one, I’ve skipped town suddenly without any explanation or word to anyone, and two, I’m cuddling up to a guy who is _not_ my fiancé. Put two and two together and it’s pretty obvious what the narrative is here.”

“But, it’s all just a misunderstanding, right?” Twyla asks. “I mean, obviously you and Rick could never actually get together. Isn’t there a way you could explain that?”

“Not in a way that sticks,” Rachel replies, gloomily. “Rumours are like chocolate, y’know – everyone’s got a taste for it, and if it gets on your clothes, it’s never coming out.” She toys with her fork, nudging pieces of waffle across the plate. “It’s just – I’m not spontaneous. I don’t just, run away from my whole life on a whim. Except I did, and there was like a minute where I thought it would be fine, that I’d get away with it, but now it’s caught up to me, and—I don’t know, Twy. Coming here was an accident, but maybe it was a mistake.” One of the pieces accidentally gets buried within Whipped Cream Mountain, ne’er to return, and Rachel sighs, setting her fork down again. “Well, I’ve burned my bridges back home, so I guess it’s a moot point anyway.”

“Can I show you something?” Twyla asks, after a moment. At Rachel’s nod of assent, she fishes her phone out of her pocket. “One of my second cousins is a firefighter down in California,” she says, as she taps at the screen, “And he told me that because fires are so common there, there are some plants that have adapted so they won’t grow until everything around them has burnt down.” She flips around the phone – on the screen is photo of a flower with long, lovely orange petals and golden pollen at its centre. “He sent me this last summer, it’s called a fire poppy – he says that after there’s a fire, you get whole fields of these blooming from the ashes, like it’s a second spring.” She smiles. “Maybe all of this isn’t the end of something, it’s just setting up a new beginning. Your second spring. Something even better is coming for you, I just know it.”

“Hey Twy, sorry I’m late, I have had _such_ a morning,” someone calls out, and then there’s a seatful of tall, effortlessly gorgeous woman beside Rachel, all shiny hair and shinier jewellery pieces packed into a flowy white top and frayed denim shorts, like she’s just stepped through a portal from some Californian music festival. “Can I get my smoothie to go?”

Twyla looks vaguely perplexed. “Um, most people order them in, so I don’t think we actually have takeaway cups big enough for them? I guess I could split it between two of the coffee ones…”

“Love that, thank you,” the woman says, breezily, tapping Twyla’s hand with one finger. “Um, wow, did someone literally just order a plate of whipped cream?”

“Oh, Alexis, this is Rachel!” Twyla says, quickly getting Alexis’ smoothie prepped to-go. “She’s having a bit of a PR crisis. Maybe you could help her out? Sorry, I’m needed back on the floor.”

Alexis turns to Rachel, and under the full beam of her attention Rachel’s mouth does the terrible, ruinous thing where it grabs the first thought in her head and runs with it, which ends up being, “You’re Alexis? I thought you were in high school,” followed by, “Sorry, that sounded weird, it’s just that Twyla said last night you had homework. Or, Alexis had homework. That could’ve been a different Alexis. Sorry, I’m Rachel,” and as she brings her hand around for Alexis to shake, hooks her elbow around the remains of her smoothie and promptly spills it all over her t-shirt. “Shit fucking biscuits, this is not my day,” Rachel mutters, face burning, grabbing a stack of napkins and starting to mop up the worst of it.

Alexis, seemingly not perturbed by Rachel’s minor breakdown right before her eyes, makes a sympathetic noise. “Poor thing, let me—you have to dab,” she instructs, stealing a couple of napkins and leaning in to take over this smoothie stain salvage operation. “Honestly, you’re lucky this is water based. You try getting crude oil out of a Christian Siriano gown at the Save the Seas benefit in the Gulf of Mexico five minutes before Leo DiCaprio has to give his keynote speech, like, that was _literally_ a natural disaster.”

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, head spinning, a little, “Can you repeat that?”

“You have to dab,” Alexis repeats, taking one of Rachel’s hands in hers, rings pressing cool to her fingers, and pressing it to her shirt in a dabbing motion. “See? So much better. That stain is coming right off that cute little bird face.”

Bird… face… “Oh, of _course_ ,” Rachel groans, squinting at the upside-down Jays logo on her shirt. “This is—this is my ex’s shirt. I came all the way here to get away from him and still managed to bring him with me. What is wrong with me?”

“Oh my god, _right,_ your PR crisis,” Alexis exclaims. “Yes, okay, spill. I am dying for a break from high school drama, so, what are we dealing with here?”

“Wait,” Rachel says, backtracking, “So you… _are_ in high school?”

Alexis waves one hand dismissively. “Okay, well I’m not, _not_ in high school. I’m just, like, doing a little refresher so I can get my GED and then get my degree in public relations _._ So I would be totally happy to take you on as like, a pre-advanced client.” She punctuates the offer with a double finger-tap to one of Rachel’s wrists, in the same way that she did to Twyla – it seems like this is just her thing. Rachel doesn’t mind it, though – it’s kind of nice to have a physical reminder that you’ve got someone’s full attention.

“It’s—a lot,” Rachel begins. Taking a deep breath, she continues: “Um, my ex dumped me and I left town because I needed to get away from the whole situation, and now my whole town thinks I ghosted him to have an affair with a guy on this baseball team I just joined yesterday even though he is literally gay and very happy in the relationship he is in because of a video that was taken at a party last night posted out of context.”

“Rachel, I want you to know that I am here for you,” Alexis says, seriously. “And I am going to clear my schedule and we are going to sort this out, because you’re going through a lot right now and you’ve worked really hard and you deserve a day.” The last part feels maybe a little like projection, but it makes Rachel smile anyway – Alexis matches her, quirked up at one side, and then adds, “Now, I just need to make one quick call.”

Alexis hops off her barstool, purse swinging beside her, and dials someone on her phone: “Ted, I’m sorry, I can’t come in today. It’s an emergency. No, it’s not—I mean not, like, physically—my friend is in crisis, Ted, she is going through a tough breakup and as an assistant veterinarian you should know that I am bound by the hippopotamus oath to help her through this…”

“Is she going to help you out?” Twyla asks as she comes back behind the bar.

They both watch Alexis pace the floor for a moment, still arguing with ‘Ted’. “I think so,” Rachel replies.

“Well, if there’s anyone who can get you out of a sticky situation, it’s Alexis Rose,” Twyla says, confidently, and – _this town has been changing since the roses arrived,_ Stevie’s voice echoes in her head. Roses, with a capital R. Alexis Rose. Maybe it means nothing, but – maybe lightning could strike twice.

“See?” Twyla continues, catching Rachel’s smile as she clears her plate. “Second spring.”

*

Alexis is, apparently, unable to get out of work, because Ted was insistent that Rachel’s case doesn’t count as an ‘emergency’, which is totally unfair, but she _does_ sympathise, because she’s ‘basically essential to his business at this point, poor thing’. So, at Alexis’ insistence, Rachel walks with her to the veterinary clinic, which, ostensibly meant to be time for Rachel to ‘debrief’ her the ‘finer details of her situation’, is derailed entirely because Rachel can’t stop peppering her with questions about her life, and how she wound up in this town, like she’s trying to connect the dots between the astronaut gifting Britney Spears the Heart of the Ocean in the music video for _Oops!... I Did It Again,_ but a more homegrown version, like juxtaposed against a Tim Horton’s parking lot instead of Mars. Even innocuous things like ‘so why are you getting your GED?’ spool out into a psychedelic-fuelled semester abroad on a yacht in the Mediterranean with the Beckhams and a brush with Beyoncé in Mykonos. Alexis came from money, growing up as a jetsetting teen model, but that all changed when her family lost their fortune and ended up here, because apparently her dad bought – _bought –_ this town as a joke for her brother’s birthday, the one thing they didn’t lose in the ‘purge’, as Alexis describes it. _Like_ , _now that I live here I feel kind of bad about saying it,_ she says, at one point, _but I wish we could’ve like, done a swap, like the government can have the town and I can get the Birkin back that Anna Wintour’s assistant’s assistant gave me after my perfume ad made the back cover of Vogue._

Alexis is like a Russian doll of curiosities, the manifestation of a Wikipedia rabbithole; every new piece of information leads to something even wilder. By the time they get to the vet’s clinic, Rachel has decided, definitively, that Alexis is the most interesting person in this town, and possibly the most interesting person Rachel’s ever met. It legitimately makes her sad that Alexis now has to leave and she has to _stop_ talking to her.

“Okay, do you know where the motel is?” Alexis asks, to which Rachel affirms that she does, she knows Stevie, and is rewarded with a quick, satisfied grin and a, “Perfect, okay, I get off at five, meet me there tonight. And bring that shirt, and anything else that is like, dead weight from your old life. Like, three things. I have an idea.” And then, with a strange half-wink, half-blink, she’s gone, leaving Rachel to realise she’s just walked all through town with smoothie down her shirt, and hadn’t even noticed.

Neither Ronnie nor Chris are in the house when Rachel lets herself back in, which – right, they’re hooking up, holy shit, that was also something she learned this morning, which honestly feels like a decade ago. She should text Stevie about that. At some point, when she can stomach looking through her phone again. There’s some loose sheets of paper on the kitchen table with a propped up note that says _Rachel_ – when she opens it, it reads, _some meat-free leftovers in the fridge if you’d like: containers with green lids. Also some things here for you to look over. R._ The documents in question are a formal lease agreement, from one Ronnie Lee, and beneath it an employment contract for casual shiftwork at the Wobbly Elm, from one Christina Bellwether. An extra post-it, stuck on top, has _‘Wed, Thurs – day, Fri, Sat nights. Call me x’_ scrawled in a different set of handwriting.

 _Second spring_ , Rachel thinks, smiling. After reading through them, she signs them both.

*

Rachel spends the day unpacking, to keep her hands away from her phone and inject a little more order into her life – she fits her clothes where she can around Cory’s boxes, from wardrobe to dresser, and then gets her cameras out and placed on the bookshelf, checking nothing got damaged on the way over. She turns up at the motel at around six, the sun low in the sky but still hours away from setting, a tote bag slung over her shoulder with some ‘dead weight from her old life’ bouncing around as she approaches reception. Except, instead of Stevie at the desk, she’s surprised to find an older man in what appears to be a _suit_ typing something very, very slowly onto an old computer. With the creak at the door announcing Rachel’s presence, he looks up – there’s something very familiar in his genial smile and thick brows that she can’t quite place—

“Good evening, I’m Johnny Rose,” he says. “Would you like to make a reservation?”

Rose, _Rose Video_ , Rachel doesn’t know how it didn’t click together before – the cardboard cutout that sat in the corner of the local store her ex worked at during high school is now a real man in front of her, and he’s Alexis’— “You’re dad,” Rachel says, immediately delivering a swift internal facepalm, “Sorry, you’re _Alexis’_ dad, hi, I’m Rachel, I’m looking for Alexis, do you know where… she is?” She feels like the deer in the very large painting on the wall behind him; always on the wrong foot, caught in the headlights.

“Ah, well, she should be around,” Johnny says, somewhat vaguely. “Are you… a friend of hers? Because if you’re visiting from out of town and looking for a place to stay, we have a number of lovely rooms available.” No kidding – the board of keys hanging behind him is nearly full.

“Oh, uh, no,” Rachel replies. “I mean, no, I don’t need a place to stay, but yes, I am her friend? I—well, I think I am, we actually just met this morning—”

Then the door swings open again behind her and Alexis appears through it, dressed now in long, flowy pants and a cropped singlet with a bunch of beads on the hem, ready to save Rachel from herself. “Oh, good! You’re here,” she exclaims, grabbing Rachel’s hand and pulling her right back out with her – once they’re out the door, she adds, “Ugh, don’t tell me my dad tried to get you to book a room. I told him not to do that with my friends, it is very desperate and cringey.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Rachel replies, smiling, as Alexis huffs exasperatedly. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, though.”

“Literally, he plagiarises my essay and gets me in trouble at school, and then he’s mad at _me_ for trying to have one tiny, _very_ controlled fire in my room,” Alexis continues. “And, yes, normally we’d also have like a shaman, and we’d be at a retreat in the Amazon, and you would literally not step in the room without a complete sage purification ritual, obviously I’ve had to make some adjustments.”

“Okay, wow,” Rachel says, as they round the corner and a small wastebin, valiantly attempting to maintain a flame, comes into view, absolutely dwarfed by a giant fire extinguisher off to one side. “So when you said ‘bring dead weight from your old life’, this is really where it goes to die.”

“Yes, this is step one of just, detoxing from all of that,” Alexis replies. “It’s kind of a séance, to just, release all that bad energy back into the universe. So, what’s your item number one?”

“Okay, item one,” Rachel says, fishing around for it in her tote, “The key to the pub I used to work in—well, literally up until a couple of days ago. My parents owned it, and I pretty much grew up there. I really should have given this back before leaving. Actually, I _really_ should’ve given my two weeks like a responsible, decent person instead of losing my mind and leaving them high and dry over the weekend. My coworker is probably sticking pins in a Rachel doll as we speak, and I can’t say I don’t deserve it.” Rachel tosses it into the fire. After a moment, watching the key sit placidly in the middle of the flames, she adds, “I don’t actually think this will melt down. I’m probably going to have to fish it out afterwards.”

Alexis seems unconcerned by this. “Okay, so, the government literally took like everything from my old life, so, my first item is my court-ordered community service form,” she says, pulling it out her bag with a flourish. “I had to pick up a lot of gross garbage and then I like, got involved with the guy I was doing community service with, which all kind of ended up being very messy, so, goodbye to that!”

“Don’t you—need to send that back?” Rachel says, hesitantly, as the paper starts to curl and blacken.

“Oh, no, I’m pretty sure it’s a copy,” Alexis says, breezily. She nudges Rachel. “Okay, your turn! Item number two.”

“Okay, for my second thing, I have—”

“What? No, don’t burn your tiny little guitar,” Alexis says, aghast, as Rachel pulls out her ukulele. “No, that is too cute to burn. Why would you want that to go?”

Rachel looks out at the field beyond the flickering flames, slowly slipping into twilight, and sighs. Purging her old life probably requires honesty. “It’s stupid,” Rachel begins. “Most of my hangups are stupid, and I recognise that like, objectively, but I can’t help that when something gets into my head it just nests there, you know? It makes a life of its own. It was just… long story short, I was in a terrible emo band through the end of high school, and we kind of imploded, and it was very public and humiliating. And this all went down when Paramore was just starting to get big too, because apparently there’s only room on the planet for one orange-haired frontwoman. And that’s not even her natural colour! Anyway, the point is, I was known as ‘Faily Williams’ for a while. And now I barely play, because it’s all up there, in my head, and—see, I told you. Even as I’m saying it, it doesn’t make sense, it’s stupid.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Alexis replies. “I mean, there are people who literally think cilantro tastes like soap, right? Like, it’s all perspective.”

Rachel frowns. “I think the soap thing is actually genetic?”

“Sure, and Elijah Wood had never been to a tea ceremony before he met me,” Alexis says, knowingly. “Okay, but, hold on, let me just throw my item out and then we can reassess the baby guitar situation.” She rummages in her bag, pulling out a DVD of _Sunrise Bay_. “I just grabbed one at random from the boxset because there’s like, twenty-five seasons in there, it’s really heavy, so this is just meant to be like, symbolic—” 

“What, _no way,_ Season Five is one of the best seasons,” Rachel says, staying Alexis’ hand as she lifts it to throw. “There’s that whole arc with Vivien and the coma patient who might also be a ghost, except it’s also implied that Vivien _herself_ is in the coma, so it’s like, what is actually real, you know? And then Sean Bean guest stars and is killed off almost immediately. I think it broke a record or something.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you were such a fan of my mom,” Alexis says, quietly, not quite meeting Rachel’s eyes.

“No, I mean, not her specifically, it’s more like,” Rachel begins, feeling like she needs to explain, “I was such a tomboy as a kid, like out with my brothers at the skate park, skinning my knees climbing trees, but _Sunrise Bay_ was my ‘girl thing’. I used to watch it with my mom every Tuesday night, it was kind of our thing, and it brought us closer together. I guess it’s not even that I like the show, it’s the nostalgia I have for watching it.”

“I get that,” Alexis says. She turns the DVD over in her hands, firelight arcing over the plastic cover. “Okay, just because you were like, very honest about your whole guitar thing, I will say that, um. I’ve never actually watched _Sunrise Bay?_ I just always hated it because it meant my mom would go off to LA and I would never see her. So, like, I have the opposite nostalgia, I guess.”

“Wait, okay, why don’t we… swap?” Rachel asks. “You can take my ukulele. I’ll borrow your Sunrise Bay boxset. It’ll be like we’re upcycling our lives, or something. Overwriting these things with new memories.”

“ _Yes_ , I love that for us,” Alexis replies. “Like, this is probably going to end up as decoration for me, because usually me trying to actually play a guitar ends up with one of my exes like, ripping it out of my hands and smashing it on the ground.”

“That is seriously fucked up,” Rachel replies, “So, in the spirit of overwriting bad memories, I am 100% going to teach you the ukulele. It’s actually a whole lot easier than guitar.”

Alexis makes a pleased noise. “Okay, I am like, clinically tone deaf, so if I play you’ll probably have to sing. Unless you have a portable autotune thingy, which is what Barbara Streisand’s vocal coach attached to my mic in the studio when we were recording my debut album.”

“You have an _album?_ ” Rachel asks. “Okay, this I have to hear. Wait, sorry, I’m getting sidetracked. Burning things, dead weight from the old life, et cetera. What’s your final thing? Cause we both know what I’ve brought.”

“So, I found this tube of cherry chapstick in this old pair of jeans I think I was wearing to this mixer for some record company,” Alexis says, brandishing the old, scuffed tube. “Anyway, I only remember it because that was the time I made out with Katy Perry in the coat check and then like six months later she wrote a song about it.”

“ _I Kissed a Girl?_ ” Rachel asks, “Wait, _you_ were the girl?”

“Mmm, apparently it was like, a very big deal for her,” Alexis says. “The whole, ‘it felt so wrong, it felt so right’, like, okay, we were just having fun, no need to write a whole essay about using me as your little experiment, or whatever. So I guess that’s what I’m purging from my life.”

“So, that was just like… for fun?” Rachel clarifies, as Alexis tosses the chapstick into the fire.

“Totally,” Alexis says, eyes sparkling, “But also, she’s hot, so I was very into it.”

Rachel considers this. “Oh, so you’re like, you’re bisexual. Is that right?”

“I prefer to think of myself as being, like, fluid,” Alexis replies, tossing her hair back. “Like I’m just going with the flow, you know? Totally down for whatever.”

“That’s cool,” Rachel says. And then, maybe a little worried that that wasn’t an enthusiastic enough endorsement of the fact that she, Rachel, is totally cool with Alexis being into women, adds, “Really. That’s great. That’s very cool.”

“Mmhmm, yes, so, grand finale time,” Alexis says, breezing past Rachel’s verbal flailing, “Let’s see that smoothie shirt.”

“So… should I, um, say a few words?” Rachel asks, holding the shirt in her hands, the sky too dark now to make out the Jays logo ruined by green. _This is a flawed system_ , she thinks. Or, more like, if she wanted to symbolise her relationship, she should’ve brought a different item. The shirt is just a random shirt – Rachel isn’t even a Jays fan. But it’s hard enough to come to terms the weight and scope of all of those ten years on their own, let alone imprinting them onto a shirt.

“Usually the shaman would lead a mystical chant, so, I don’t know,” Alexis is saying, with a thoughtful look. “Do you feel anything like, coming to you? From the astral plane?”

Rachel doesn’t, but she _does_ feel a mosquito take a good gulp out of her left arm. “I think I’ll just – goodbye, um, to this? I hope it sticks. And I’m sorry you guys haven’t won the world series since the nineties. Keep at it.” She tosses the shirt into the wastebin, and it’s breaking point for the tiny fire – instead of catching alight, the shirt immediately extinguishes it. “Okay, um, success?” Rachel says, after a moment. “Can we go inside now? I’m being eaten alive by bugs and I really want to listen to your album.”

 _A Little Bit Alexis_ is a certified _jam_. After the fourth track, Rachel is jumping on Alexis’ bed, sharing an invisible mic with her as Alexis shout-sings along and Rachel just throws in words where she can, when a sharp “No,” comes from the front of the room, and Rachel twists around mid-jump to see a guy in a snazzy black sweater and dark, artfully torn jeans closing the front door behind him, setting down a duffle bag next to the other single bed. “Alexis, we have talked about this, after Mexico you _promised_ that my ears would never have to hear this album again.”

“Ugh, David, that was like, so long ago,” Alexis says, bouncing down into a seating position with a huff. “I thought you said you like, got all of that out of your system in therapy.”

“ _Oh_ , you’re David!” Rachel says, excitedly putting some pieces together as she kneels down next to Alexis. “Stevie’s—Jake’s— _that_ David. Right?”

David’s (frankly, impressive) eyebrows lift right up. “ _Okay_ , so we’re just airing out my life to random strangers, now, are we? Well, hi, new person in my room, I’d introduce myself but I guess you already know _all_ about me, so.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, David,” Alexis huffs, “Literally everyone knows and, honestly, no one cares.”

“Sorry, I am _really_ not great at first impressions,” Rachel says, sheepishly. “Twyla just brought it up at the tailgate last night with Stevie, and you were having some trouble with a new business venture—” David’s eyebrows somehow go even _higher_. “—And I am going to cut that train of thought short while I’m behind, wow, I am _so_ sorry for—I’m Rachel. I’m new here. What’s, um, what’s up with Mexico?”

“Okay, sure,” David says, gesticulating in a way that seems to communicate _this may as well happen_. “There was a time where Alexis here needed me to pick her up and literally drive her back over the border because she had just broken up with her cartel boyfriend—”

“Okay but he wasn’t _in_ the cartel, he was just laundering money for them,” Alexis cuts in. “And I broke up with him as soon as I found out, which just so happened to be the day Timbaland finished production on my album and sent me the final cut, so it was like, a fun soundtrack up the coast to LA.”

“Literally so traumatising,” David says, shuddering. “The opening beat starts and I’m back in my car, all these black SUVs trying to run us down—”

“—He was an _accountant_ , David, there was literally _no one_ after us—”

“Mmm, and you notice Timbaland was basically blacklisted for years after _A Little Bit Alexis_ ,” David retorts. “Coincidence?”

“Whatever, David, could you please, like, come back in an hour, or something?” Alexis asks. “Rachel and I are actually having a very serious PR crisis meeting.”

“ _Really?”_ David says, and when Alexis stonewalls him, arm crossed and gaze level, he goes, “Fine, if I have to be subjected to _that_ while in this room, then yes, I will gladly vacate it.”

“One more song?” Rachel says, weakly, after the door slams shut.

“No, Rach, this has been like, super fun, but we’ve put this off long enough,” Alexis replies. “You have to turn on your phone.”

“Ugh,” Rachel says, fishing her phone out of her pocket, and then, dithering for a moment, finally commits to the on button. Once the Apple logo flashes up, the notifications return with a vengeance, and she winces quickly swiping to Do Not Disturb to shut them all up. But when she looks up, Alexis is holding out her hand. It takes a second to click, and then—

“Uhh,” Rachel balks, “I don’t—I’m not sure if I—”

“All these messages need to be read so we can be fully briefed on the situation, and you are like, not in a good place to be doing that,” Alexis explains. “Most celebrities have a handler who screens all their socials for them as their full-time job. Like, anyone who’s really famous? That’s an intern that’s running their Twitter. Trust me, I’m a professional. A pre-professional.”

“I just—it’s my whole life,” Rachel demurs, flipping her phone over in her hand. Her face, reflected in the dark screen, is small and nervous (and, from this angle, all chin). “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just… I mean, would _you_ do it, if you were me? Just hand over the keys to the kingdom?”

This is another glue-your-hands-to-the-wheel moment – the part where, if she goes through with this, the other shoe could drop and kick her right to the curb, or help her finally find her feet. The choice crystallises in Rachel’s mind, like a point-and-click game from when she was a kid: _It’s a beautiful evening, you’ve spilt smoothie all down your ex’s old shirt, and a mysterious stranger-turned-fast-friend with a crooked smile is sitting on a motel bed, asking you for your phone. Do you hand it over?_

Alexis sighs, squeezing her eyes shut briefly. “Ugh, no, you’re right. Mmmm, okay, okay, um… okay.” And then, in one quick movement, Alexis hands over her phone to Rachel, thumbing to unlock it as she does. Rachel gets brief flash of her lockscreen before it shifts to home – a photo of Alexis posed coquettishly in all summery white on a balcony, ocean a brilliant blue behind her.

“Oh,” Rachel says, surprised. “I mean, you didn’t have to—I was just, saying, hypothetically—”

“Think of it as collateral,” Alexis says. “Just, don’t make any posts, okay? Or text anyone. And don’t open anything that comes through from Diplo. And if you get a call just take a message – I do it all the time at work, it’s super easy, I can totally teach you if you want.”

“Thank you,” Rachel replies, very touched, one finger hovering over the screen, and then – making a decision, she locks it, then pulls her own phone up into her hand and passes them both back over. “The gesture was enough. You’re not the one in crisis, you don’t have any need for me to be rooting through there.”

Alexis smiles – soft, tilted up at one side – and delicately lifts Rachel’s phone out of her hands before folding Rachel’s fingers back over her own. “Keep it. We’re in this together, right? Um, but I do need—”

“Right,” Rachel says, belatedly, and thumbs over the home button to unlock it for her. Their fingers brush – Rachel feels awkward and clumsy in the wake of this grand gesture of trust they’ve just undertaken, even though they’ve literally just met, the gravity of it all lingering in the room. “Um, I’m just going to the bathroom,” she continues, and then quickly turns away before she can watch Alexis tap through her phone.

Alexis is sitting cross-legged on her bed once Rachel re-emerges, easy and relaxed even while scrolling through the debris of Rachel’s life. “Rach, these photos are _really_ good,” she says, without even looking up. “I am _obsessed_ with this shoot you did at the lake with that cute guy. Though you don’t have any pictures of Pat—”

“I’m trying not to use his name,” Rachel cuts in, quickly. “If that’s okay. It’s just—it’s hard to untangle someone who’s been woven into your life for as long as you can remember, you know? It just felt like a small step I could take, to make it easier.”

Alexis smiles, and shoots her wink. “I got you, girl.”

“Um, and, yeah, he’s never been much of a photo guy,” Rachel says. “The ‘cute’ guy at the lake, though, is actually my eldest brother, Declan. You probably couldn’t find him on Facebook, he deactivated a while back. He’s living in Spain, now – went backpacking through Europe after high school, met a girl, and the rest is history. He doesn’t visit often, so it was kind of like – I wanted to capture that thing of coming home to a place you’ve been away from for so long, rediscovering how you fit into it.”

“I love that,” Alexis says. “Maybe you could do your own photoshoot when you go back.”

Rachel sighs, perching on the end of the bed. “Maybe.” Alexis makes a sad noise and a comically frowny face, patting the space next to her at the top of the bed, so Rachel scooches up until she’s tucked between Alexis and the wall.

Her phone buzzes in Alexis’ hands. “Ooh, incoming from Do Not Text,” Alexis reports. “Aww, he’s _Team Rachel_ ,” she coos, tapping at the screen for emphasis, even though Rachel can’t actually see the text. “‘Whatever’s going on, just know that, if you need me, I’m here.’ Rach, he honestly sounds kind of sweet.”

“I mean he is, but, that is a _trap_ ,” Rachel says, pointing at the phone. “No, this is, this is _textbook_ us. We break up, it’s whatever, and then one of two things happen: I will get lonely, and ‘accidentally’ send him a text, just a bunch of letters, saying my phone was ‘unlocked in my purse’, _oldest_ trick in the book—”

“Oh, _totally,_ ” Alexis interrupts, “I used to text Zac Efron just like a question mark whenever I wanted a booty call—poor thing would be like buzzing my apartment before I even pressed send.”

“Okay, well, he’s no Zac Efron,” Rachel says, laughing in spite of herself. “And it was never a _booty call_ so much as a, just—wanting that comfort, you know? Someone who knows you, who you can just _talk_ to, who you have all these dumb jokes with, someone who’s in your corner. So he’d see right through it, of course, but he’d know it was _because_ I was lonely, and he’d want to take care of me. Same outcome as option two: something shitty happens to me, it makes its way through the grapevine, and it would be _him_ reaching out, wanting to reconnect.” She lets out a long sigh, hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s just this thing with me, that I want to be comforted, I want to be _seen_ , to feel less alone—”

“Oh my god, _right?_ ” Alexis says, bracelets jingling with the force of her agreement. “Okay, but this is the longest I’ve been single since like, ninth grade, when my boyfriend’s mom said he had to break up with me so he could focus on his math homework, which was the longest semester _ever_ because poor thing could _not_ maintain a C average.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out, either.”

“I really did try to wait for him, but I think we both knew math just wasn’t for him,” Alexis replies. “And then it was just like, all my friends were dealing with their relationship dramas and I was like, this little island in the middle of it all. Which is weird, because I’m actually, literally, in the same place now. Like, I’m back in high school surrounded by all these high school relationships, which would be hanging by a thread if not for my intervention, honestly. But I miss like, just, having someone there all the time to cuddle with, and make me laugh, and buy me jewellery and like, tell me I’m pretty.”

Rachel smiles. “Alexis, stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but you’re _really pretty_.”

“Oh my god, _Rach_ , please, buy me dinner first,” Alexis gasps, mock-scandalised, fingers brushing across Rachel’s hand coyly. “Anyway, stop deflecting, this is about _you_ , we are dealing with your crisis right now. Tell me all about you and Mister Do Not Text.”

“Sorry,” Rachel says, automatically, before realising that technically Alexis interrupted _her_. “Yeah, right, so it’s hard because, I want to be comforted and he needs someone in his life to comfort, to shower with gifts and attention and… it just fits, you know? We can’t help ourselves. We just keep falling back into it.”

“So, if you both like, complement each other so much, what was the dealbreaker? Is he like, a serial cheater?” Rachel shakes her head. “Does he have like, very annoying habits, like leaving the toilet seat up, or snoring, or buying the wrong cut of diamond even though he _knows_ Emerald Cut is like, so tacky—” Well, snoring, but he _did_ buy a nose thing to help with that, and it didn’t solve the relationship. “Okay, um, did he try to leverage you during a fracking dispute?” Uh, definitely not. “Is he _very_ into feet?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Rachel replies, wry. “But, like, that’s the thing, I don’t _know,_ ” and at this, that old familiar frustration bleeds into her voice, “Like yes, on paper, we’re perfect together, and if I knew—if either of us _knew_ what was wrong with us, we’d have fixed it by now. At first it was always, we’ve reunited, we’re a team again, yay, like you’re excited to see someone after a long time away and you just want to spend all your time together catching up, right? But then, that fades, and we fall into routines, and I would just feel lonely again. I don’t think we ever actually admitted that to each other, but, somehow I think he felt it, too? But it seemed easier to be lonely together than lonely alone. For a while, anyway. Until you have these moments of like, we’re in this relationship, three years, five years, ten years, everyone around us is getting married and having kids and there’s all these _expectations_ , and this _pressure,_ and I honestly don’t know if he was actually thinking about spending the rest of his life with me when he proposed or just getting his fucking Aunt Siobhan off his back.” She takes a breath, to refill her lungs, feeling like she’s just run a marathon. Or, well, repeated her several block run from this morning. God, she needs to build up her cardio again.

“Wait, you two were engaged?” Alexis asks, with a weird amount of excitement in her tone considering the context. “I didn’t see that on your Facebook. And you broke it off?”

“I—yeah,” Rachel says, slowly. “Neither of us were big on social media, as I guess you can tell – mainly just used the ‘social’ part of it for messaging people. But yeah, he dumped me, technically, and I left the ring with him, because it seemed like the right thing to do—”

“Okay, I _knew_ us meeting was meant to be,” Alexis says, beaming, as she takes both of Rachel’s hands in hers, bouncing them a little on the bed in excitement, “So, first, that doesn’t just make today a séance, it’s a _séancé_. Because, like, that was like, the _exact_ same thing that happened with me and my last ex. Okay, my second-last ex. And, not _exactly_ what happened, but we did get engaged twice, and then I called it off? And there was kind of an overlap there with my _last_ ex, but it’s totally water under the bridge, we’re good friends, and I actually work for him, so – it’s basically proof that it’s all going to work out.” She gives Rachel’s hands a little squeeze. “You’ll see.”

“You broke an engagement under shady circumstances and this town doesn’t hate you?” Rachel asks, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I mean, if anything, that actually is pretty comforting. Your ex, that you work for, that’s – Ted, right? Who you were calling earlier?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Alexis confirms.

“And that isn’t… weird for you?” Rachel asks. “I mean, you were engaged, and broke up, and now you’re working together. The whole reason I’m here, in this town, is that this was the only way I could think of to set a boundary that neither of us would cross, that would lead to us repeating this whole cycle.”

“It’s totally not like that for us,” Alexis says. “We keep it super professional, and, like, nothing is less sexy than the scrubs I have to wear, ugh, so, honestly, nothing is going to happen.”

“If you ever wanted the option, there’s always work somewhere, if you ask,” Rachel presses, not sure why she’s even invested in this—well, maybe because she’s been there in her own relationship. “I mean, I got a job at the bar, out at the edge of town. There could be something else for you, so you could get some space from the situation, you know?” Alexis is quiet for a moment, uncertain, and Rachel quickly backtracks. “God, I’m sorry. This isn’t about you. This is about me. I guess I just keep pushing focus.”

“ _Right_ ,” Alexis says, after a beat. “Yes, and we are pulling it back. So, the first thing we are going to do is offload some of these apps because your mentions are _not_ cute right now,” Alexis says, tapping away at Rachel’s phone. “Social is all going back into the cloud until someone in your town like, drops a baby in a lake, or something—and, done. Okay. Next, we are muting some of these people who are being very rude and off-brand in your text chains – and I don’t know who Erin is, but I am just going to go ahead and block her number.”

Rachel chuckles. “That’s fair.”

“And now,” Alexis says, momentously, “We are going to craft a text, to your ex—Rach, no, stop, I am _not_ giving you back the phone, _you_ were the one who wanted to set boundaries! Let me handle this, okay?”

“Augh, okay, you’re right, okay,” Rachel says, reeling back in her grabby hands. “Just, what are you going to say to him? You have to let me edit, at least, otherwise he’s going to know something’s up.”

“That’s where the _we_ in _we’re_ crafting a text comes in,” Alexis replies. “Because like, I totally get what you’re trying to do, taking one for the team to stop your whole on-off cycle so you can both move on… but you’re also just ghosting him without any kind of explanation, which is honestly not very fun when you’re on the receiving end.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says, pushing her face into her hands; then more muffled, “Yeah, yes, _ughhh,_ I’m a jerk.”

“You are not a jerk,” Alexis says, authoritatively. Rachel gingerly lifts her head back up. “Trust me. You are a good person, and you’re just trying to sort through a breakup, and sometimes things get messy, and maybe a very sweet vet gets hurt, and that’s just, what it is. All you can do is move forward and try to be a better person.” She takes a quick breath, and then she smiles at Rachel. “Luckily for you, I am on the case. And maybe it will take an hour, but it doesn’t matter how many little puppies with sore paws there are over at the clinic, they will have to wait, because nothing is more important than closure. For both of you.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, feeling very warm, suffused with it, and, “Thank you. This is kind of weird, but also really nice.”

Alexis, with one finger, boops her on the nose. “So. Where should we start?”

*

That night is the first time Rachel dreams about Alexis, though most of it is gone by morning. What she _does_ remember is that she’s on a horse, riding hard across an open field, running away from – something, it’s unclear, but it’s a threat, and she has to get away, even if she feels weighed down in her wedding dress, wind whipping her veil out behind her. Then hoofbeats sound behind her, at her right flank; Rachel twists in her saddle just as Alexis pulls up beside her in an identical dress, the same veil pinned to her hair, bouncing with the gait of her silvery steed.

“We’re runaway brides, Rach,” she shouts over, grinning steady and bright, “Let’s run away together!” Then, she draws her sword, holding it high above her head so it hits the light, almost too bright to look at, and they press onwards.

  
  



	2. wet hot canadian summer

The summer of Rachel’s second spring starts slow, and then comes together all at once, like the orange burst of a flower opening its petals to the sun. Cory comes to collect his boxes, and then Ronnie takes them both out to dinner at the Café Tropical, tossing back and forth the kind of outrageous stories about Ronnie’s Uncle Ralph and his mother, the ‘second’ Gayle, with the same Lee dry wit that ends with Rachel in stitches. She makes nice with David after getting off on very much the wrong foot by linking him up with one of the accountants managed by Audrey, who she met through one of Ronnie's Women in Business dinners, to help him get his business off the ground after she finds him literally asleep on his laptop in the cafe one morning. She gets a more permanent shift schedule at the Wobbly Elm and breakfasts with Alexis (and Twyla, if she has a slow shift) every day before she has to go to school, or the clinic; then it’s baseball on the weekends, or, on an off-week, it’s catching a movie with her friends on the team up at Elmdale, or dropping into one of Twyla's yoga classes, or going on a hike, or hanging out with Alexis, and whatever adventure they decide to go on.

The first real symbol of permanence Rachel builds into her new life in this town, though, is the darkroom. Back home, she’d converted Declan’s old bathroom, but that was a _big_ no-go for Ronnie vis-à-vis Rachel’s ensuite. And for a little while, Rachel thinks that’s that, until Ronnie takes her to her workshop one day and points out a corner she’s cleared out just for Rachel. Once the components Rachel ordered arrive, they put it together in the space of an afternoon with breaks for cool, homemade lemonade that Rachel whips up, heavy on the brown sugar: Ronnie rigging up thick blackout fabric across a wooden support frame, running a wire through to hold the redlight, cutting carefully around the base to install the extractor fan without letting any light bleed in. Elmdale College apparently closed down their photography course, so she gets a great deal on a secondhand enhancer and a thirdhand printer, and then begins to work her way through the negatives: baseball days with Bob’s Garage, some great dynamic shots of Stevie grimly pounding the grass as she rounds third, Chris (who is a lot more relaxed about rival teams watching her games) with her arm gracefully poised to pitch, Cory with Rick on his shoulders after their last victory, fists pumping the air; forests and fields and the titular Creek, as she begins to slowly explore her new home; Alexis, concentrating fiercely as she places her single finger on the third fret of Rachel’s ukulele to play her first chord (C). She makes small prints, mostly, to start, putting them together as a kind of moodboard across her wardrobe, with that little photo of the fire poppy in the centre that she’d got Twyla to send her.

The landscape of her phone also starts to change. She’d been drifting away from her friends from back home for a while – they’d either long skipped town or got married, and had kids, meaning all they’d want to talk about was their marriage and their kids, and were only ever available to hang out during the hours Rachel was working – their chats, now dormant, are getting pushed further and further down the line to make room for the Bob’s Garage baseball chat – but mostly Stevie, Jess, Cory, Rick and Danny – and Twyla, who sends her pictures of her herb garden, and her groupchat with Twyla and Stevie, which is mainly a safe space for venting about the hazards of working in hospitality. Aside from a brief block of time where Darryl’s working holiday visa expired and he had to go back to Australia and Rachel was basically on call for breakup support for Jessica (even though, secretly, Rachel thinks the time she and her ex did long distance when he went off to get his business degree was the best their relationship ever was), by and far, Alexis’ name sits at the top of her phone every day. Alexis updates her on all the latest high school goss, and sends pictures of cute animals that make their way through the clinic; in turn Rachel talks about all the wild stories she hears from people at the bar. They even make a game of it – Rachel will prompt _glass eye, Mom tattoo, single malt whiskey_ and Alexis will reply _huge One Direction fan, rest stop on the way from following their tour around the country,_ and then give Rachel a _tiny lady with a Saint Bernard in a wheelchair_ , to which she’ll respond _secret agent trying to infiltrate the town council in order to install dog ramps_. 

Jessica and Darryl are not the only romantic casualty of the summer, however: as Alexis coerces Rachel to come and help out at David’s store for the morning with the promise of getting ‘free stuff’, she discovers that The Throuple are no more.

“You guys were so cute together, though, doing all your little combination dates,” Alexis says, mournfully. “Like a little romantic Rubix cube.”

“Okay, please don’t ever use a ‘Rubix cube’ to refer to someone’s relationship, ever again,” David says, with a shudder that definitely indicates he’s probably picturing something along the same lines of Rachel; like, a rotating square of flesh. Yikestown. “Look, we tried it, even though I wanted to tap out of the situation as soon as Jake proposed moving from poly-V right into triangle mode, we pushed it along a little longer, and in the end it was just too weird, so, I called it. That’s all there is. We’re moving on. And can you please _stop_ sampling all of the products, you are here to help me unpack, _not_ further validate items that I have already tested on myself.”

Alexis, nonplussed, just passes the hand cream she was testing over to Rachel. “Okay, but, consider people with different skin types—”

“Sensitive, oily, combination,” Rachel offers, applying some of the cream to her hand.

“—and it could give them a rash, David—”

“Not great for business,” Rachel adds. Her hands feel very smooth. Product, validated. “Nor for pleasure.”

“—Exactly, you need to know these things. It’s just good business sense.”

“I hate it when you punctuate each other’s sentences,” David mutters.

“You are so grouchy when you’re newly single, we should change that,” Alexis decides. “There are some like, very cute people on Rachel’s baseball team, if you’re thinking of like, playing that field. Jessica is totally single right now.”

“Oh, well, if we’re talking Rachel’s baseball team, Rachel, aren’t you currently unattached?” David says, casual as anything, but his gaze is fixed very steadily on Alexis.

 _“David,”_ Alexis says, sharply. “Don’t.”

“What?” David replies, airily. “I’m not _doing_ anything, all I’m saying is that you’re single, right, Rach?”

“Uh, yes, I am, and not really ready to mingle at this point,” Rachel says, and then, casting around for something to move the conversation on from whatever _this_ is, “Does it get weird, sometimes, with both of you being fluid? Like, you’ve never had a competing boyfriend-girlfriend kind of situation?”

“Good god, no,” David replies, as Alexis makes a grossed-out face. “We have yet to confront that terrifying reality. Though, with our extremely reduced dating pool, the risk is very much increased.” He clears his throat. “For the record, though? I identify as pansexual.”

“Oh! My bad,” Rachel says, hastily – and then, confused, adds, “I didn’t know they were—are they different?”

Alexis and David both share considering looks. David makes a vague gesture. “It’s more about, like, branding.”

“Yeah, see, I’m like, fluid, totally chill, down for whatever, like I’m going with the flow,” Alexis explains. “And David just likes to label things, like take all of that and put it into a little box.” She taps the box in front of her for emphasis, the label therein reading HAND CREAMS.

“Um, excuse you, pan literally means _all_ ,” David says, affronted. “I could not be less in a box.”

“You’re not _in_ a box, David, you just like to ‘box’ everything,” Alexis argues. “Like, you get so annoyed whenever I talk about my red Givenchy dress because you’re all like ‘it’s blood orange’—”

“—because it _is_ blood orange, you can’t just go around calling something that is clearly blood orange, ‘red,’” David cuts in, airquotes and all. “I mean, what’s next? A lion is a cat? A hotdog is a sandwich? We have to draw a line somewhere, or we all fall into chaos.”

(Rachel nearly comments _okay but a hotdog is definitely a taco_ and then considers, with uncharacteristic wisdom, that now might not be the time.)

“The point is, Rach, it doesn’t matter if a dress is rose quartz or salmon or whatever, all that matters is if you feel cute when you wear it,” Alexis explains. “Just like, try on some outfits until you find the one that’s perfect for you.” She wraps a scarf around her neck, coy, and David immediately reprimands her, telling her to take it off, devolving into another round of sibling sparring which Rachel is content to just sit back and watch play out.

It does fit, though, when she thinks about it: David, who likes labels on and about his person, who is _specific_ and _particular_ , every inch of him carefully curated – even the way he speaks, sometimes, like he’s selecting individual words off a shelf at some high-end boutique. Alexis, who doesn’t, who’s _fluid,_ up or down for anything except being put into a box, who’s escaped (often literally) from every relationship she’s ever been in, who’s lived life like a fast car on an open road before her ride conked out and stuck her in this town – which is a pretty familiar point of reference for Rachel.

Except Rachel realises, in this moment, that if Alexis had posed it as a question – _what do you feel cute in?_ – she wouldn’t have an answer. She doesn’t even really have a style, in the actual subject of the metaphor – she wears jeans and cardigans because they’re comfy and cheap, but she’s never thought about it like, _I am Rachel, I wear cardigans. I am Rachel, I’m pretty good at mixing drinks and taking pics, and I was in a terrible emo band that fell apart, and my senior year softball team came second in the county. I am Rachel, and this is the furthest I’ve ever been from my hometown, and the most adventure I’ve ever had was wandering away from our family campsite when I was seven and the park rangers finding me the next day curled up in a hollow tree. I am Rachel, and I’ve only ever seriously dated one guy._ Maybe she’s never really entertained that thought, that _who is Rachel_ , because her life has been profoundly uninteresting.

 _Well,_ she amends, _until now._

“Rach, didn’t you have a bag with you?” Alexis is asking, breaking her out of her reverie – they’re literally halfway back across town, and, yes, Rachel _did_ leave her bag in the store.

“I’ll meet you there,” Rachel tells her, and hurries back to where David is continuing to sort through boxes on his own after unceremoniously kicking the pair of them out.

“Back to steal more of my products, are we?” David asks, eyeing her narrowly.

“Just the ones in my bag,” Rachel replies, “Which I left right over – here, there it is.” She pauses, just before the door. “Hey, I’m sorry about before. About, like, using a label that isn’t yours. I don’t mean to be a jerk, I’m just, there’s never been many people in my life who weren’t straight, so, I’m still learning. Which isn’t an excuse—okay, I guess it is an excuse, but yeah. Sorry, again.”

David flaps his hand around dismissively. “It’s fine. It doesn’t bother me. But, honestly, there’s probably fewer straight people in your life than you think. ‘Everyone has a gay cousin,’ as the saying goes – it’s kind of an iceberg situation.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Where is the Titanic, in that metaphor?”

“Well, if you ask conservatives, the Titanic is society,” David replies, dryly. “And if you ask some members of the community, maybe it’s also society, but in a way of like, destroying the old ways to make way for the new. Or, something. I don’t know.”

“Gotcha,” Rachel says. She takes a moment, considering. “Hey, David, what if I don’t have a gay cousin?”

David shrugs. “There’s always a gay cousin. If you don’t have one, then maybe it’s you.”

*

The hand cream is pretty great, actually. The problem with how much Rachel enjoys her new, soft hands is that it’s all gone almost too soon. Maybe it’s a harbinger of bad tidings to come – the morning after she runs out, she totally oversleeps and is late to her and Alexis’ regular breakfast thing. All the tables are already full, and none of them contain Alexis, who is presumably also late, but Moira Rose is sitting at one of the small tables with a newcomer she doesn’t recognise.

“Who’s that over there with Mrs. Rose?” Rachel asks Twyla, as she slides into a stool at the bar.

“His name is Sebastien Raine,” Twyla says. “Mrs. Rose ordered some kind of coffee for him – I think it was a cappuccino? – and told me his name five times, so I definitely remember it! Apparently he’s this very famous photographer from New York. ‘Cause she also told me that, five times. She says they’re going to do a shoot together, maybe in Berlin! It all sounds very exciting.”

“Good for her,” Rachel murmurs. It’s the camera hanging over his shoulder that caught her eye, as he offers a hand to Moira to escort her out of the café – she recognises it from a blog post ranking the 10 Most Overpriced DSLRs That Only A Total Hack Would Buy. Figures a fancy New Yorker has money to burn.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket:

**Alexis**

Sorry, no breakfast today

When are you working?

From 5, but technically I’ll be there at 3 after baseball

why?

you okay?

**Alexis**

Always

💯

I’ll see you later!!

💛

Feeling a little put out, Rachel repockets her phone, asking Twyla to grab her some kind of muffin to-go instead of her usual Alexis Breakfast Special, and heads back home to get ready for baseball. Their game today is against Kingsford Quarry, and they squeeze out a win by the skin of their teeth, the team too exhausted afterwards to stick around in the hot sun for the traditional barbecue lunch (now with bonus vege dogs, for Rachel), and all beg off to go back to their respective homes to shower. Rachel, for her part, turns the dial right to Arctic to try and stave off the heat as long as she can and then naps hard in her stuffy room until her alarm goes off at two-thirty, forcing her to get dressed and head over to the Wobbly Elm.

The heat doesn’t abate as the sun slips lower on the horizon – if anything, it gets worse. It feels like it’s forty degrees inside the packed bar, air thick and humid, crackling with the promise of a storm later. Rachel changed into a dark tee before heading out tonight in anticipation of being inside an absolute sauna for a number of hours (a correct assumption), so that the sweat now sticking it to her back wouldn’t be too obvious. She’s got her hair up in the highest bun she can manage to free up her neck (and has snuck an ice cube or two to rub across it) but it’s heavy and drags uncomfortably at her scalp. It’s been a while since she got it cut. She should… do something about that. At some point.

Then, just as she considers going out for a third ice cube, she spots a familiar figure weaving her way through the crowd – Alexis props herself up at the bar, looking very fresh compared to the sweaty mess that Rachel feels, and goes, “Hey, you.”

“Hey, _you_ ,” Rachel replies, smiling. “Missed you this morning. Felt like a night out, tonight?”

“I am actually here to work,” Alexis says. “The whole, ex-séancé thing, I think I needed to do that for me, too. You were right – it’s good to set boundaries. So, I quit the vet’s clinic, and I was thinking I could work here, with you. We can be each others’ like, sponsors, like in AA, except for not letting a man come between us being strong, independent women.”

“As much as I champion the whole, hashtag girlboss movement,” Chris says, dryly, from the other end of the bar, “You’re gonna need an interview first.”

“Mmm, okay, but what medium are we talking,” Alexis says, “Because if it’s anything other than print, I’m going to need a glam squad. And all questions will need to be pre-approved by me.”

Chris looks to Rachel, one eyebrow raised. “I’ll take care of her,” Rachel says, hastily.

A beat, and then: “Fuck it, I could use some air,” Chris says, cheerfully, tossing her towel to Alexis. “You’re up, kid.”

“So I’ve got the job?” Alexis asks, as Chris comes out front of the bar.

“You got a trial run,” Chris tells her. “Don’t screw it up. Call me if you need me, Rach.”

“Will do!” Rachel calls out after her, then, turning to Alexis: “Okay, do you know how to mix drinks?”

Alexis considers this. “Mm, not _technically_ , but I was like, very involved in the production of my perfume line. Like, I didn’t _make_ them, but I made a lot of suggestions for the scents.”

“What is your life,” Rachel says, fondly. “Okay, here’s what we can do – go out on the floor and get orders, I’ll make them, and then you bring them out to those people. Once Happy Hour’s over and it quietens down a little, I can teach you some basics. Sound good?”

“Aye aye, captain,” Alexis replies, shooting her one of her trademark asymmetrical blinks (presumably intended to be a saucy wink). Rachel grins, and takes her ordering pad and pencil out of her back pocket, handing them over to Alexis. “Okay, so, real quick q: what am I working with, here? What’s, like, the _good stuff_.”

“Most people just get house wines, beers, or well drinks, which is like cheap liquor and a mixer,” Rachel explains. “They’re all specials for Happy Hour, so I wouldn’t expect anything fancy.”

“Mm, love that, but what about like, some yummy champagne, like a Dom Perignon or a Moet.”

“Really not that type of establishment,” Rachel replies, dryly. “I think the stuff we have can’t be legally called champagne – it’s called like, Zhampagne, or something. All the expensive liquor we have is on display, but I barely touch it, most days – some of these folks would probably be happy with paint thinners with a splash of lime if it gets the job done.”

“Ew,” Alexis says, crinkling her nose in distaste. She pulls up her phone, taking a quick picture of the bar, then squints down at it. “Okay, and you’re paying market price for each of these?”

“Yeah, as far as I’m aware,” Rachel says, distractedly, flicking her gaze down the bar – there’s a bit of a backlog that’s started brewing since they’ve been talking. “Hey, you’ve got this. I gotta go take care of these guys, so, hit me up if you have any questions.”

She’s kept pretty busy for a while, handling a bunch of orders, the heat beating at her like a drum. Finally, her last order is for a regular – a local farmer, who she only knows as Charlie – who asks for a scotch, neat (which is his prerogative, but if any night was a time to try it on the rocks, it’s tonight). “Swede midge’s causing havoc up in Timiskaming this year, all the way up to Cochrane, even,” Charlie explains enthusiastically as she slides his drink over. “So it’s a good time to be growing canola in the south, even with the humidity, eh?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Rachel replies, absently, keeping half an eye on Alexis to see how she’s faring out on the floor. Alexis definitely made better clothing choices to beat the heat, dressed in a blue patterned playsuit, loose and low-cut, all that bare skin much more effective to shed the hot air — the warm light plays over the elegant line of her collarbone, shifting over her shoulder and across the sweep of her neck as she laughs at something a patron says, leaning over one of the tables, golden-cast down the curve of her spine before it dips into fabric. Rachel feels overheated, dizzy with it, but Alexis seems to be on task, so she switches focus back to Charlie, who apparently is growing a canola crop this year that’s just started to bloom.

“…’Course, everyone keeps saying Ontario’s a non-starter, you want a good crop you gotta make like a sheep and head over to Saskatchewan. But those folks’re selling seed and I’m like, hey, why not go the oil route, can make a tidy sum getting on board with that export stream to China.”

“Love that for you,” Rachel replies – Alexis is finally coming back to the bar, after spending a long time drifting between different groups at the tables. “Hey, hold that thought – I got a few more orders coming in, but I’ll be back in a tick, alright?” She quick-steps over to Alexis, who is leaning with both elbows on the bar, order pad held in a limp wrist. “What’ve you got for me, sailor?”

Alexis looks down at the pad. “Mmkay, ‘two Jacks and Coke, Four Bombay Sapphire G&Ts, three Grey Goose Moscow Mules, round of six tequila shots, must be Don Julio…’”

“Hey, can I see that, for a second?” Rachel cuts in, and then stares down at Alexis’ neat script adorning the order pad in disbelief, skimming the rest of the orders in silence. “Alexis, these are all calls, like, top-shelf, _premium_ drinks. I’ve literally had people _specifically ask_ for the absolute cheapest liquor we have, and then try to haggle me down on the price. Are you sure this is, like, one hundred percent what they ordered? The exact words?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Alexis says, breezily. “As you can see, I’ve got names and card numbers down here so each group can start up a tab.”

“How,” Rachel says. “ _How._ ”

“Upselling,” Alexis says, triumphantly. “It’s in my Intro to Business – the seller invites a customer to get the more expensive version of their product to generate more revenue, through either like, marketing the premium products or just, like, actually letting the customer know that they’re available. So, like, sure, maybe all the old biker guys just want to huff paint or whatever, but on a Saturday night there’s actually a lot more hot, young singles looking for fun. And, as a hot, young single, I know how they think, and they’re either looking to impress their friends or another hot, young single. All you have to do is suggest they stand out from the crowd by ordering the fanciest drink on the menu.”

Rachel grins, so hard it begins to hurt her cheeks. “Alexis, you’re a genius.”

Alexis twirls a strand of hair, smiling back at her like the cat who got the cream. “I know.”

And when Chris sees the numbers at the end of the night, Rachel yawning sweatily into her elbow, she breaks into a similar smile. “Well, hey, if money talks, I’ll listen,” she tells them. “You two want to be a dynamic duo on weekends, that’s fine by me, I know a good thing when I see it. Alexis, I’ll draw up a contract tomorrow.”

“And I will look it over, and get back to you,” Alexis replies. “Just a heads up, though, I do have some notes, starting with the menu—”

*

The heat breaks in the early hours of the morning. Hours later, Rachel wakes, snuggled into her duvet, to a room awash in pale grey light and the sound of gentle rain. It’s very Maroon Five – _Sunday morning, rain is falling_ – and she hums to herself, luxuriating for several long minutes to that rhythmic patter at the windowsill, in the calm still of the morning, before getting up to start her day. The rain has cleared before she leaves the house, the milky sky already starting to break into patches of blue, though it’s still cool. Surprisingly, Alexis is already at the Café when she arrives, tucked into their usual booth in a big cable-knit cardigan (that might actually be Rachel’s) nursing a tea and nothing else – which Twyla has evidently noticed, because she greets Rachel with a cheerful _hi, Rach, Alexis said you were meeting her here so I went ahead and got your usual, hope that’s okay!_ as she sets down the Café Tropical Vegetarian Breakfast Special (mostly various roasted mushrooms, a grilled tomato half, scrambled eggs and some undercooked toast) with a side salad and a blueberry muffin, already split and buttered on a separate plate.

“Oh, thanks, Twy, that’s really thoughtful of you,” Rachel says, dropping a thinly-veiled sense of overwhelmedness into her tone. Twyla’s smile is knowing as she heads back to the kitchen – they’re run variations of this routine a number of times, ever since Rachel noticed that Alexis often doesn’t order food for herself, especially when she’s not feeling in high spirits. Rachel’s wondered, sometimes, if it’s baggage left over from New York, from the TV shows where the socialites eat three almonds and a black coffee and call it a meal, from the pressure to pack herself into that box. But it’s not that Alexis can’t be enticed into eating, because she will steal bites from someone else’s plate if the opportunity is there – so when it’s a Drinks Only Day, Rachel has taken to ordering a meal and a side and then eating very slowly, small delicate bites, so that by the time she’s gotten through half Alexis has _also_ gotten through half. “Shit, I should’ve told Twyla to scale this down,” she confides in Alexis, once Twyla is out of ‘earshot’. “There’s no way I’m gonna be able get through all of this on my own, so, like, if you see anything you like, just go for it. You’d really be doing me a favour.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Alexis replies, that crooked smile ghosting across her face. Rachel projects absolute innocence as Alexis reaches over to pluck Rachel’s fork off the table, spear a button mushroom, and pop it in her mouth. After a moment, she adds, “Bad habits die hard, and it helps, so. Thank you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rachel replies, echoing her smile. “I’m just really bad at only ordering what I need. I’ve definitely got a problem, and I just never _learn_ , so, I appreciate that you’re always willing to help me out.”

“Well, I’ve got your back,” Alexis replies, booping her hand. “Always.”

“So, what’s on your mind?” Rachel asks. “Any penny I can give you for your thoughts? The Americans still mint them, at least.”

“Ugh, it’s just—I’m a good person, right?” Alexis asks, almost plaintive. “Or, a better person, than I was. Like, I’m trying to be.”

“Of course,” Rachel says, emphatically, reaching across to take her hand, because it seems like the right thing to do. “You are kind, and thoughtful, and—my life would be such a mess if it weren’t for you, you know that, right? Where is this coming from? Did someone say something shitty to you at the bar last night?” And then, thinking of the previous night, Rachel recalls the _reason_ Alexis was there – that she suddenly decided to quit the vet clinic, talking about ‘setting boundaries’… “Did something happen with, uh, with Ted?”

“You know I needed those volunteering hours to graduate?” Alexis asks. “Well, I asked Ted if he could sign my form, and he was like, your job doesn’t count as volunteering, even though like, I’m _volunteering_ to work there – anyway, so he was like, well I do this thing a couple times a month with these old people and tonight I’m teaching them to dance. So I went to that and they all like, _hated_ me, because I had messed up things with Ted and they think he’s still ‘stuck’ on me and can’t move on or whatever, and like, that’s _my_ fault too.”

“But it’s not,” Rachel insists, giving her hand a squeeze to punctuate that sentiment. “That’s on him, not on you. You haven’t done anything wrong, they’re just judgemental jerks.”

Alexis sniffs. “It’s just, I was so sure that everything was cool between us, that my situation was nothing like yours, but I’ve just like, trapped him here with me instead. And you left your fiancé of _ten years_ and literally changed your whole life to get yourself out of a situation that was hurting you both, and I couldn’t even quit a job with my ex I knew was probably going to make things complicated between us. So I finally did it, I quit the clinic, but his face, Rach – he was crushed. I just I wanted to try being strong, like you, but maybe I’ve just made things worse.”

“Like _me?_ ” Rachel says, flabbergasted. “I just got lucky – I ended up in the right place at the right time, even though I made all the wrong choices. _You_ escaped the Yakuza, and a Thai drug lord, and played a pool game at a Ugandan diamond smugglers villa to secure your friend’s freedom! You were held hostage by Somali pirates on David Geffen’s yacht for a _week_ and got out of there totally unscathed. I didn’t even know who David Geffen _was_ before I met you!”

“That’s all luck, and being really pretty and charming, and having a wicked curve shot,” Alexis replies. “This honestly felt so much harder.” She’s quiet, for a moment. “I think it’s just easier to run away from something when you don’t care.”

“Oh,” Rachel says. There are probably a lot of things she can say, here, to reassure Alexis, but _when you don’t care_ keeps echoing around in her head – does that mean Alexis still cares about Ted, is stuck on him the way he’s stuck on her? And why does the thought of them getting back together make her feel queasy, like she’s already eaten far too much of her Vegetarian Special? Maybe she’s just projecting, thinking about her relationship with her ex – Alexis and Ted aren’t like that, probably. It could be fine. It could be good! Third time’s the charm, right?

And then a figure with a ratty cardigan and large bag slung across his shoulders skulking into the café draws her out of her spiral, and she nudges Alexis to point him out, hopefully to distract her from her distress in a way that Rachel doesn’t seem to be able to do, right now. “Hey, that’s Sebastien Raine – wasn’t he going to do a shoot with your mom?”

Alexis twists around in her seat, catching Sebastien just as he snatches a large takeaway coffee out of Twyla’s hands and hurries out of the café. “Oh, _yes_ , that was a total disaster,” she replies, a little too enthusiastically, seemingly thankful for the change in subject. “It turns out he’s a total douchebag who wanted to take all these frumpy photos of her in like, all the overgrown and ugly parts of town to make some sad profile on the downfall of Moira Rose or something, _without_ her consent. Luckily David took one for the team and destroyed his little camera card, so, none of those are ever coming to light, but – ugh, poor thing, she was really excited about it, you know?”

“Hey,” Rachel says, slowly, an idea starting to form in her mind. “What if _we_ did a photoshoot? You can kind of, run the whole thing, figure out outfits with your mom, I’ll find the location and take the photos.” Alexis needs purpose, needs to feel like she’s doing good – this is a way Rachel can _help,_ a way she can pretend the meal is for someone else but still slip Alexis a fork. “She can have total creative control, and—and I’ll shoot film, give her the roll afterwards, so she can have them developed herself and not need to worry about getting anything leaked, uh, digitally.” She smiles at Alexis. “Something to lift her spirits, you know? To get her mojo back.”

“ _Love_ that,” Alexis replies, lighting up. “But I don’t think we have the budget to go to Berlin.”

“I was thinking of something more local,” Rachel says, gears turning in her head. “In fact, I think I know just the place.”

*

Farmer Charlie’s canola field is resplendent, rippling gold out to the horizon, cut in sharp relief against the cloudless blue sky. Rachel feels extremely validated when Alexis lets out a delighted gasp the first time she sees it, taking a million photos on her phone to send back to her mother so as to get final approval on the location, even with Rachel wryly pointing out that that is meant to be _her job_ – which gets her pushed, protesting, out into the field for her troubles so Alexis can take a million photos of _her_ to get an ‘idea of the posing’ – again, _Rachel’s job_ – until she’s either run out of phone memory or bored of Rachel’s awkward posing attempts.

(Alexis does throw a couple of them over to her via AirDrop, though, and there’s one in particular she does like – she’s got her back to the camera, looking out over the field towards that endless blue sky, the light gleaming across her coppery hair a nice contrast with the buttery-gold flowers. Rachel’s still silent on most of her social profiles, reticent to kick up any dust that’s tentatively settled, but she saves that one to her drafts on Insta anyway.)

The shoot is short notice to accommodate everyone’s various schedules, because the whole family seems determined to turn up: David, complaining about literally how much work he has to do for the upcoming opening of his store, _why_ is he even here, and Johnny Rose, who advises that David needs to pitch in for the family too, apparently here to be ‘moral support’ to Moira Rose, the star, arriving with an entire carful of outfit changes all bundled into sweet, bewildered Charlie’s living room. Alexis does a good job of corralling them all and keeping the chaos to a minimum, which allows Rachel to do what she does best – to take a step back, hold her camera steady, and let it all play out.

Later, in her darkroom, Rachel starts the process of developing the roll that she was using for the test shots, which she volunteered Alexis for as fair’s-fair for doing the same to Rachel on their location scout. Mainly, Rachel is itching with curiosity to know how the film turned out – true to her word, she did give Mrs. Rose all of the rolls with her image burned onto them, and who knows if she’ll ever actually get them developed, but at least she can check out the test shots to have a rough idea.

Most of the roll is other memories: Rick dancing around Danny on his birthday with sparklers, timed group shots of the Bob’s Garage team that she’s planning to blow up and gift to Ronnie at some point, light splitting through the treetops of the forest trail a little drive away from Schitt’s Creek that she hiked recently. The test shots, once she gets to them, do look really nice – even in black and white, the contrast between the flowers and the sky is still thing of wonder, and Alexis looks great, doing her best model poses in frame, confirming that the angles Rachel picked were solid.

But Rachel’s struck by one of them – she almost misses it, at first, but once her eyes skip back, it’s hard for her to look away. She remembers the moment: David had freaked out over some bug accosting him from the flowers, and Rachel had clicked the shutter just as Alexis had turned to laugh as he flailed about, trying to swat it away. And, like, of _course_ Alexis is beautiful. That’s just a fact, like the sky is blue, the Pope is Catholic, and at every party – no matter how large and lively, nor small and intimate – there will be some guy with a guitar playing Wonderwall. But it’s something about the way the light hits her, softening her face, her smile genuine and bright, that makes Rachel’s fingers almost tremble as she stares down at it, heartbeat stuttering in her chest, with the force of how lovely it is. Maybe it’s that Alexis feels so _alive,_ here, unguarded, unposed – like Rachel’s seeing the Alexis who wears a full face of makeup on a jog and has already drafted business cards for her potential PR firm in the same frame as the Alexis pointing out the plot holes in _Sunrise Bay_ once Rachel finally cajoled her into watching it _,_ wrapped in Rachel’s oversized cable-knit cardigan over her silk pyjamas, tugging exasperatedly at an earring. Or, something.

One thing’s for sure, though: even though it’s going to be a lot more work, this photo needs to be in colour.

*

On the morning of the championship game for the season, there’s a woman that isn’t Chris brewing the coffee pot in the kitchen – tall and thin in a white silk nightgown, a steel-grey bob framing her angular face. She introduces herself as Petra – an old friend of Ronnie’s from Ottawa, just in town for the week, because she has a client who won’t let her hair be cut by _anyone_ else – and hands over a mug to Ronnie as she comes in, getting a soft kiss to the lips in exchange.

“Are you and Chris no longer… together?” Rachel asks Ronnie in a low voice over breakfast, once Petra has retired back to the bedroom to get changed. “I don’t mean to pry, I just, is it going to be weird that I’m working for her and living with you? I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable—”

“Christina Bellwether and I have an understanding,” Ronnie replies, dryly, making no effort to reduce her own volume. “And it’s generally an understanding that doesn’t extend beyond baseball season. You can’t break up if you were never really dating.”

“Oh,” Rachel says. “Sure, okay, that’s good. Is that good?”

“It’s good,” Ronnie confirms. “She’s good, I’m good. So, don’t worry about awkwardness on whatever end – the whole point of not having a relationship is to avoid all that bullshit.”

“Why don’t you want to have a relationship?” Rachel asks, curious, and then, “Ugh, sorry, that’s too personal, now I _am_ prying. You don’t have to, uh, answer that. Sorry. I’ll wash up, if you’re done.”

“I think I figured out a long time ago that the romance thing wasn’t for me,” Ronnie says, after a long moment – so long that Rachel nearly drops one of her plates she’s rinsing under the tap in surprise that Ronnie is actually _answering_. “I mean, look, I love women; I know them physically and count them as my friends, and at the end of the day I don’t feel like anything else is missing. Friendship, sex, community – that’s enough for me. I like having my own space, my own life, and I like not having to compromise on it. I only get involved with women who can meet me on that level, ‘cause when you’re in a community as small as ours, you can’t risk tearing that apart if someone gets hurt. Chris and I may fight like cats and dogs out on the field, but this is something that we see eye to eye on.”

“Is that Chris B. we’re talking about?” Petra asks, coming into the kitchen – at Ronnie’s slow nod, she grins. “Oh, that woman is the best kind of trouble. Give her my regards when you see her again. Are we ready to head out?”

Just then, there’s a _rap-a-tap-tap_ at the door. Petra looks at Ronnie, who looks at Rachel, which seems to be her cue to get the door. “Hey, you,” Alexis says, smiling on the other side, sweet and cute and summery in a wide-brimmed straw hat and flowing white off-the shoulder dress, pressing a bouquet of yellow flowers into Rachel’s arms; no canola, but a beautiful array of yellow roses, lilies, daisies and carnations. “Mom got the photos developed – she _loved_ the shoot. She’s already trying to convince Dad to get one of them blown up and put on our wall, and she didn’t even do that for her Terry Richardson nude shoot, so – congratulations!”

“Oh, that’s, I’m really happy to hear that,” Rachel replies, after a moment, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I mean, I’m not a professional, this was just a nice activity, but, um, thank you—her?—for these, this is so sweet, I’ll just – Ronnie, do we have a vase? Or like, a very large glass?”

“I’ll take them,” Ronnie says from over Rachel’s shoulder, and then the bouquet is lifted out of her hands. “Are you going to join us for the game, today, Alexis? We’re playing Café Tropical for the championship.”

“Actually, I was going to ask Rachel out to dinner,” Alexis says, eyes sparkling. “I know you’re all super modest and uncomfortable about being praised or whatever but I want to celebrate you, Rach.”

“I mean, you helped organise the whole thing, so, we should be celebrating you, too,” Rachel mumbles.

“Well, then, let’s celebrate both of us,” Alexis says, definitively. She boops Rachel on the nose, and Rachel feels herself blush, grinning and ducking her head to hide it.

“Aw, this is cute,” Petra says, leaning on the doorframe besides Rachel. “Where are you taking her?”

“There’s a very cute place in Elm Glen that says it has the highest health rating in the county,” Alexis replies. “So, yay for good food, and good hygiene.”

“Does it have vegetarian options?” Ronnie asks, back after evidently finding something to do with the flowers. “And not just a side salad, I mean real food. Something substantial. She’s got a big game today, she’ll need the calories after.”

“ _Ronnie,_ ” Rachel hisses.

“Yes, I’m like, ninety percent sure,” Alexis replies. “Eighty-five. I will check on that.”

“See that you do,” Ronnie says, seriously. “You take her out, you need to treat her right.”

Alexis nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, this has been real, but we really need to go,” Rachel says, loudly. “Like, now. Um, Alexis, do you want to come? There’s room in the car, if we move some of the bats and stuff over.”

Alexis makes a face. “Ugh, no, David needs me for a store thing. But… I’ll pick you up later?”

“Yeah,” Rachel says. “I’ll, um, see you then."

Alexis grins. “It’s a date.”

*

“—and then Jackie literally hit the most legendary home run, and that was the clincher, Café Tropical couldn’t come back from that, so Bob’s Garage are the fucking _champions,_ eat shit, Toronto Jays! But, seriously, it felt kinda surreal, like, I was sitting on this picnic table with Stevie, and I was like, I remember _being_ here, on my first day in this town, not knowing anyone, not even knowing where I would even be the next day, if I would stay – and now I’m here, and it’s like I have this whole new family, and I’m like—sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, please,” Alexis says, smiling at her from across the table at Elm Glen’s finest, drop-dead gorgeous in a pink dress – or maybe rose quartz, or coral – hair loose and wavy, dangly golden earrings catching the warm light as she tilts her head. “You’re cute when you’re excited.

“Oh my god, I almost forgot,” Rachel says, pulling up the laptop bag she’s had situated down by her feet this whole time, entrees and all – Alexis had given her a very quizzical look when Rachel had insisted on bringing it to the restaurant, but she had wanted to make this a surprise. “Speaking of the shoot, I actually developed some of the test shots, and um. This is for you.”

“Oh,” Alexis says, her face turning a soft pink once she peels back the tissue paper and sees the photo of herself, achingly beautiful amongst the canola, in crisp, bright colour. “Rach, this is—this is amazing.” Rachel doesn’t even duck the compliment, because she _is_ pretty fucking proud of it, actually – she totally nailed the exposure on the first try, even if she was willing to do as many rounds as it took to do the picture justice. “Honestly, though,” Alexis says, “When you’re a bigtime photographer, you _have_ to sign with my firm.”

“I mean—I don’t know about—it’s just a hobby,” Rachel hedges. “I don’t know if I really want to make it a whole thing – I feel like if I try and make it an actual _business_ , it would stress me out too much, you know?” At Alexis’ pouty face, she laughs, and relents. “I mean, maybe freelance, like the stuff we were doing. Just, local stuff. Your small-time, local clients. I could get into that.”

“I mean, there’s totally a gap in the market,” Alexis says. “The only other photographer in this town is Ray, and he doesn’t go out on location at all, just does like, passport photos, and weird indoor couples shoots. You have literally the whole world as your studio. I mean, just, promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Thinking about it, I can promise you,” Rachel replies. “So, yeah, so I was kinda planning on giving this photo to you after graduation. But then, after today, getting kind of introspective about my time here, this is actually the perfect time to give it to you, because – I just want to thank you for being there for me, through all of my shit and every day since. You’re my best friend, and the best damn PR person I know, the only person I would trust to be my sponsor for our Single Ladies Support Group.”

There’s a look on Alexis’ face that Rachel can’t quite place, but it’s gone so quickly that Rachel probably just imagined it. “ _Yes_ ,” Alexis says, very enthusiastically, “Yes, single ladies supporting each other, because that’s totally what I meant, at the bar, about being strong, independent women and not letting a man come between us. Yay for me. Yay for us!”

“Yay," Rachel repeats, laughing, as the waiter finally brings over their mains. This dinner is a perfect end to a perfect day, and it feels like nothing can bring her down.

*

Except, in the week following dinner, something does. And, most frustratingly, Rachel can’t actually pinpoint what it _is._ She just feels—off. Like there’s this new itchiness under her skin. Like she needs to _do_ something, but she doesn’t know what. But Alexis has finals, so she hasn’t been as available to accommodate Rachel’s new, weird urgency, so Rachel just runs her routine and… itches. And then, during a regular text conversation with Stevie, which is usually a healthy mix of dry commentary and memes, Stevie casually drops in _David wearing a showercap under a beanie because he thinks Alexis is going to give him lice is the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen all week_ to which Rachel replies _Alexis has lice?????_

It’s not a big deal. It’s not like Rachel hasn’t had lice before, as a kid. She knows the drill. But why didn’t Alexis _tell her?_ They tell each other everything. But then she’s been acting weird since dinner. Or maybe Rachel’s been acting weird. Or maybe the photo was a crappy gift. Alexis is used to getting _diamonds_. Princess cut, never Emerald. “Augh,” Rachel says, despairing, as the comb she dug out from a miscellaneous bathroom shit box in the cupboard gets caught firm in her hair, her too fucking long hair, why hasn’t she gone and gotten it cut! _Fuck!_ In a moment of wild desperation, she makes a decision, and runs out of the bathroom, hair dripping everywhere, into the kitchen to grab the scissors.

“Whoa, okay, no running with those,” Petra says, grabbing Rachel’s hand gently. “What do you need to cut so urgently?”

“My hair, Alexis has lice and I probably got them from her and now there’s a comb stuck in my hair,” Rachel says, words tripping all over each other, “And I can’t get it _out_ because my hair is too stupid and long, and just, I need it gone. All of it.”

“Okay,” Petra replies, carefully extracting the scissors from Rachel’s hands and setting them aside. “So, let’s be nice and calm when dealing with sharp objects. I don’t usually do this, but because I don’t have another client until I get back to Ottawa, I’m going to help you. And then sterilise the shit out of everything. Okay?”

“Okay,” Rachel says, trying to breathe slow, trying to will down her itchy head, itchy thoughts, itchy itchy itchy.

Petra sits Rachel down at the kitchen table, laying her tools out in front of her, and then positions herself on a chair behind her, a basin in her lap. She gathers Rachel’s hair in a loose pony at the nape of her neck, and then with a few quick cuts, the weight of it is all gone. Rachel breathes out, slow, feeling lighter, feeling more steady. “It’s a pity – you’ve got virgin hair, and it’s a lovely colour, but no buyer in their right mind would take it in this state.” Petra murmurs.

She could be referring to the lice, or the split ends. Or maybe both. “I don’t even know how I _got_ lice,” Rachel complains.

Petra _hmms_ in consideration. “Don’t you and Alexis spend all of your time together?”

“Well, yeah, but she’s been busy recently, so we haven’t seen as much of each other,” Rachel says, “So it doesn’t make sense how I could’ve gotten them from her. You know?” Rachel pauses, as Petra instructs her to tilt her head to the ceiling, and feels the scrape of the metal comb and Petra starts methodically combing the lice out of her hair, then the _ting_ of the basin as she cleans the comb. It’s oddly soothing. “I don’t know, she’s just been kind of… distant. Okay, well not like, _distant_ distant, we still talk, I mean, I don’t think anyone else would really notice, it’s just—she’s usually very touchy, you know? And she hasn’t been, recently. Ever since we went out to dinner—I don’t know, it’s just something I’ve noticed. And usually lice are only from close contact, right?”

“Did the date not go well?” Petra asks.

“It wasn’t a date,” Rachel replies, feeling weird and sweaty all of a sudden. “I mean it wasn’t—I would’ve known if it was—was it? A date?”

“I—I mean, I don’t know either of you, just that she came to your door with flowers, and I think Ronnie gave her some kind of shovel speech, I just assumed—” Petra flounders, as Ronnie comes into the room. “Ron, help me out here – Rachel doesn’t know if Alexis took her out on a date or not.”

Ronnie’s expression gives nothing away. “Did you want it to be a date?” she asks, carefully.

Rachel opens her mouth to say _no_ , but it never makes it out of her throat, because it’s not—it’s too harsh an answer, because Alexis is a total catch, objectively, funny and gorgeous and weirdly wise, who _wouldn’t_ want to go on a date with her— “Maybe?” Rachel ventures, and then, “Yes? Wait. Oh my god, wait, do I want to date Alexis? _Was_ I dating Alexis?” She takes a hot, dizzy breath, and then another, in sharp succession, “Shit, _shit_ , did I go on a date, with Alexis, and then talk my way out of dating Alexis, and now she’s—”

“Okay, I know I opened this apparent can of worms myself, but please keep still while I’m holding scissors,” Petra says.

“Sorry,” Rachel says, gulping in air. Ronnie crouches down beside her, taking both of her hands in her warm, steady grip.

“Hey,” Ronnie says, gently. “It’s okay. I know this can feel like a lot, but I’ve got you. Okay? Match your breathing to mine. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” Rachel does as she’s told, and slowly the buzzing in her head starts to recede. “There we go.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel says, dazedly. “Am _I_ the gay cousin?”

Ronnie smiles. “You’re whatever cousin you want to be.”

“But it makes no sense,” Rachel continues, “Because like, I’m nearly _thirty_ , and I dated a guy for like ten years, and I never even thought about another woman this way, so why _now_? I mean, how do I even know this is real, and not like, all in my head, somehow?”

“P, this is definitely your area,” Ronnie says, giving a pat to Rachel’s thigh before easing up, and taking a seat at one of the other chairs.

“I don’t know which path you’re going to take on your own journey, whether men are included in that or not,” Petra says, combing steadily. “But for my part, I’m a lesbian with an ex-husband and two kids back in Ottawa. Sometimes love comes to you late, but that doesn’t make it any less real.”

“But… why?” Rachel asks.

“Have you ever heard of compulsory heterosexuality?” Petra says. Rachel shakes her head, before remembering she’s meant to keep her head still, so ends up with an aborted looking twitch.

Ronnie chuckles. “I’m going to make some tea.”

Petra finishes combing, and starts cutting her hair, carefully shaping it, her soft voice accompanying the gentle _snicks_ of the scissors as she talks. And by the time she’s done, Rachel’s thoughts are less itchy, but she still feels adrift, not really sure where she stands – not really sure what she should _do_ about it. About Alexis. Oh god, she can’t screw this up.

“So, here you are, the new you,” Petra is saying, and holds a mirror in front of Rachel’s face. Her hair is shorter than it’s ever been, a soft pixie cut swept up from her forehead, framing a pale, tired face. She smiles, and her mirror-image smiles back.

“I like it,” Rachel says. “Thank you, so much. For this, and for the talk. This was… it was a lot. But I’m glad it was here. I’m glad it was the two of you.”

“Alright, I’m going to put everything in bleach before I hit the road,” Petra says. “And I think I’ll go by the tattoo parlour in Elm Glen on my way out to see if I can use their autoclave. But all the best to you, Rachel.”

“Oh man, is this what it’s going to feel like every time?” Rachel says to Ronnie. “Coming out? I feel like I’ve just been flattened by a steam press.”

“However it feels for you, it’s going to keep feeling that way for a while,” Ronnie says. “Coming out’s the ride that never ends. Even once you cover all the bases with your family and friends, whenever you meet someone new – let that be a stranger you bump into on the street, or colleagues at a new job, or one of your brothers has another kid – they’re not necessarily gonna figure it out, and you have to make the choice as to whether you want to share that part of yourself.” She shrugs. “Though, to be honest with you, I’ve never actually had to come out.”

“What do you—to no one?” Rachel asks, in disbelief.

“People have always known, before even I knew myself,” Ronnie replies, “And I knew pretty young. When I get the ‘so, you’re a lesbian’, it’s as a statement of fact, rather than a question. Be honest – as soon as you saw me walk out of that car, you knew. Am I wrong?”

Rachel flushes, embarrassment burning deep in her gut. “No, you’re um. You’re not wrong. I assumed. God, I’m so sorry. That’s like—I didn’t even question, I played right into a, a set of stereotypes, I—”

“Look, I don’t think I need to tell you how difficult being this visible can make my life,” Ronnie says. “But when you’re in a good place, where the people are kind, and you can live and love openly, the silver lining is that it takes away all the fuss. If a woman buys me a drink or turns up at my door with a bouquet of flowers, I don’t have to second-guess her intentions. We can just get right to it.”

Rachel laughs, and then chokes on it, feeling all mixed up with emotion – relief and guilt, apprehension and uninhibited joy, all blended together and served in a short glass, then spilled all down her top. “Okay, come here,” Ronnie says, opening up her arms – Rachel mutters something about lice, and Ronnie scoffs and goes, “Please, like I need an excuse to shave my head again,” and pulls her in.

“Thank you,” Rachel murmurs, into Ronnie’s soft, generous neck. Which doesn’t even begin to cover it, but – it’s a start.

*

**Hospitality** **🤝 Solidarity**

**Twyla**

So happy for you Rachel!

**Stevie**

_[image description: The Lonely Island’s Andy Samberg grinning while holding a cake with ‘Congrats on the ~~sex~~ GAY’ written in icing]_

you and alexis are like

ugh

cute

i GUESS

it’s cool that you’re making it official

thanks guys

it’s literally such a weight off my chest

like it’s crazy how many things make so much sense now

HOW did i not figure this out like. 10 years ago???

smfh

but also like

wrt/ me and alexis

we’re not actually dating lol

**Stevie**

wait

but didn’t you. literally go on a date last week

not like

officially?

i mean if it was i didn’t realise it at the time

**Stevie Budd** _has changed the name of the chat to_ **Rachel’s Literally SO Obvious Crush on Alexis Support and/or Intervention Group**

**Stevie**

okay, not to invoke nickelback here

but LOOK AT THIS PHOTOGRAPH

_[image description: Rachel’s photo of Alexis in a canola field]_

**Twyla**

Oh Rachel that is amazing!!!!

omg can we please change the name of this thread

literally what if she sees it come up on my phone

**Stevie**

first, that is THE POINT

second, if you give someone something that sentimental at dinner, IT IS A DATE

I hate you both

**Twyla**

☹️

Okay maybe just Stevie

**Twyla**

😊

**Stevie**

i can live with that

**Living Large with Bob’s Garage (+ Double-Agent Danny** **💚)**

**Ricardo**

wait, you guys AREN’T dating???????

like not to undercut how proud of you we all are

because i think i can speak for the whole team here

in that we love you and we’re so so happy for you

i think i can ALSO speak for most of us when i say,

GIRL.

**Stevie**

right???

**_Ricardo Álvarez_** _has changed the name of the chat to_ **Official Kickstarter Page to Get Rachel on an Actual Date with Alexis**

Why does everyone keep saying that???

dkfjdk sTOP CHANGING THE NAMES OF ALL OF MY CHATS

**Stevie**

okay but that wasn’t even me this time

**Jessica**

Rach, she was at our game the other day

Wearing one of your cardigans

**Cory**

Pretty sure y’all were holding hands at one point lol

**Daniel**

you were, it was cute

**Ricardo**

she FED YOU a vege dog!!!

**Stevie**

holy shit you’re right, how did i forget that

…okay maybe when you put it like that

**Daniel**

but do you want to, tho?

date her that is

ugh

yeah

😓

**Ricardo**

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Jessica**

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Cory**

[Alexis voice] love this for you

**_Stevie Budd_** _has changed the name of the chat to_ **Can’t Stop Until Our Shortstop Has a Girlfriend**

I swear to god

**Stevie**

yeah that was on me

**Jacqueline**

So when *I* wanted to change the group name to The Ring of Fire (and Friends) I was vetoed, but THIS everyone is cool with

(Also, very happy for you Rachel, we of the Ring salute you for embracing your true self!)

**Phillip**

💍🔥👍

**_Ricardo Álvarez_ ** _created the chat_ **Sports Gays to Save the Day**

 **_Ricardo Álvarez_ ** _added **you** , **Daniel Mason** and **Jessica Koenig**_

**Ricardo**

okay but forreal rach as our newest baby gay

any tips or tricks you wanna know, hit us up

we’re all here for you 💖

**Daniel**

welcome to the family 😊

you guys this is so sweet, thank you 😭

**Jessica**

Seriously though, talk to Alexis!

You two are adorable and we all want to see y’all make it ~official~

😘

**Ricardo**

And okay on that note

Jess you’ve mourned long enough

It’s time you asked Twyla out

*

The line for David’s store opening event seems a lot longer than what Rachel’s ‘exclusive’ Friends and Family invite promised it would be. That being said, nearly everyone she’s talked to during the past couple of days at the bar and otherwise while trying to keep busy to avoid Alexis – while trying not to look like she’s _avoiding_ Alexis, but every time she tries to talk to Alexis about the big new changes in her life that chiefly concern her Rachel’s words just dry up because she can’t screw this up _again_ and lose her and especially lose her to _Ted_ – has made some mention of it. Either David has formed close relationships with about half the town, or word _may_ have gotten out beyond his selected group of friends and/or family. David himself rushes past her, looking harried, and a minute later she gets a text going _911 there are a million people here if you’re around can you please come and work the register!!!!!!_ which seems to confirm the latter.

“I said no cutting!” comes a voice from the line as she hurries up to the front, that she thinks might belong to Darlene’s cousin Rebekah – “I’m staff,” Rachel calls back, and raps on the door for David to let her in.

“Oh, thank god,” David mutters, closing the door quickly behind her. “Stevie’s busy and Alexis said she was going to be late, and I need to be on the floor to manage this crowd, and you’re the only other person who I know who knows how to use a register and won’t pocket the money afterwards.”

“I’m honoured,” Rachel says, dryly. “But, full disclosure, I will be taking my wages in hand creams, and maybe some of the fancy cheeses.”

“That is… acceptable,” David replies, vaguely, as he flits around, twitching bottles a centimetre to the left, smoothing out the scarves on the rack, then peering out of the windows, towards the line that snakes around the block. “Oh god. What have I done? There is not enough wine and cheese for _half_ of these people. This is a disaster.”

“Hey, it’s okay, relax,” Rachel says. When David looks over to her, wild-eyed, she smooths her smile from teasing to reassuring. “This is happening. You just have to make the best of it. I’ve got the register, and I know how to handle a crowd, so just enjoy your quality time with all your friends and family.”

“Okay,” David says, resolutely, more to himself than to Rachel, it seems. “I’m going to—I’m opening the doors.”

The next few hours are very hectic. Rachel swipes tags, sorts change and takes names – though, most of the customers are people she actually knows, from serving them at the Wobbly Elm or from baseball or just through a friend of a friend, and she has a funny moment when there’s a break in the line to the register where she reconciles with the fact that she _knows_ all these people – that she’s dug herself so deep into this town that she’s right in the weeds with everyone around her.

“Hey,” Alexis says, suddenly in front of her – Rachel hadn’t even realised she was in the store, let alone in line, she’s been so busy – “Um, I would like to buy, this.”

A pair of cute hand-carved wooden stud earrings in the shape of leaves slide across the desk, and Rachel rings them up automatically, feeling awkward and tongue-tied in front of Alexis in a way she’s never felt before – except, maybe, within the first few seconds on the first day they met. “Twenty-five,” Rachel says, finally. “Would you like a gift receipt?”

“No,” Alexis replies, and then, “Wait, do I? They are a gift. So, yes.” Then she smiles, and pushes them further towards Rachel.

“Uh, I can’t actually bag them,” Rachel says, apologetically, picking up the earrings and handing them back to Alexis. “The totes are one size, and I’ve kinda been having to save them for the bigger items, because David didn’t anticipate this kind of crowd and we don’t have the stock for it, so – is it okay if you put them in your purse? Sorry about this.”

“Oh, of course,” Alexis says, too brightly, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and Rachel is fucking this up again, somehow, but she doesn’t know what she’s doing _wrong_ – “Um, well, thank you, for this, and I will – see you later?”

Once the store closes up, David starts setting all the items people have shifted around back in place and Rachel runs numbers at the till. As the crowd outside disperses, though, her attention keeps getting snagged – Alexis is still out there, with _Ted_ , Ted who she got to take care of her own lice problem after breaking into the vet clinic, according to Stevie, and they’re talking and she’s laughing and then he _hugs_ her, and Rachel hates Ted, stupid Ted and his terrible lack of any major character flaws that make him actually hateable.

David clears his throat, in a way that says, _I’m not sick, but please pay attention to me_. When Rachel does, he says, carefully, “You know, if there was anything you wanted to um, talk to my sister about, I’m pretty sure she would be receptive.”

Rachel frowns at him, for a second, and then – “Ugh, you too? Really?”

“Okay, need I remind you that greeted me by talking about a relationship I was in the first time we met, literally before I even knew your name,” David retorts.

“That… is fair,” Rachel says, wincing internally.

David sighs, tilting his head to the ceiling for a moment, like there’s some absolution up there between the beams. “Look, all I can say is, your name comes up in almost every conversation we have – including today, when she spent like ten minutes trying to haggle with me out on the floor over a pair of earrings. And I don’t think she’s ever bought _me_ a gift. So, whatever that means, it’s not nothing.”

“Wait,” Rachel says, heart ticking up, “Wait, those were for _me?_ ”

David gives her a _look_. “Are you saying you didn’t—oh my god, just, get out of my store, _go—_ ”

“I’m coming back for my cheese board,” Rachel calls out, tossing the keys to the register over to him on the way – by David’s squawk, they may have missed his hands and made impact somewhere else on his person, but she doesn’t look back until she skids to a stop in front of Alexis. Ted is gone and Alexis is still here, which could mean she waited for _her_ , but could also mean she waited for David, but – regardless – she’s _still here._

“Hey,” Alexis says, mouth curving into a crooked half-smile, that sweet, beautiful mouth, _oh my god_ , “So, Ted has just informed me that I might have not made it clear that I was buying these for you.” She holds up the earrings, then, a touch hesitant, brings them over to Rachel’s ears, her hand a hairs-breadth from her cheek, while Rachel stands there like an idiot, flushed and breathing quickly, “Honestly, I just saw them and thought, wow, that would be such a cute look on her, especially with her new haircut. And like, Rachel is stuck over there behind the desk and there are like, so many people in this store, what if they sell out and she never gets a chance to—”

Rachel’s mouth does the thing, the thing where she talks before she thinks, but this time instead of words she leans in and kisses Alexis. It’s off-centre, bumping noses, and Alexis makes a soft noise before Rachel feels the cool press of the earrings into her cheek, Alexis course correcting, guiding her into a better angle. And it’s short, just the space of a handful of seconds, but _god_ , the slide of her lips, the slight bitter taste of her lipgloss licked away, it’s overwhelming – and when Alexis pulls back, Rachel feels like she’s lost her mind, literally, that it’s entirely detached and stuck itself to Alexis’ lips, her body back somewhere behind. _This is how this is supposed to feel_ , she thinks, half in awe.

“I want to date you,” the mouth attached to Rachel’s body says, distantly, finally talking some fucking sense, “I want us to date, if you would like to, also, date.”

Through her haze, Alexis is smiling, bright, genuine, absolutely glowing with it – which has to be a good sign. “I would love that,” she says. “Where do you want to start?”

*

It turns out kissing Alexis is nothing like kissing any of her exes. For one thing, Alexis is so alive, so responsive in her arms – making little noises, humming and giggling and sighing into Rachel’s mouth, and sometimes one of the locks of her long hair ends up trapped between them, and Rachel splutters it out and they laugh, and laugh, and Alexis is so cute like this – eyes scrunched up, little lines creasing the edges, cheeks soft and rounded – that Rachel has to dive back in. And kissing Alexis is just like dating Alexis – it’s joy, it’s fun, it’s champagne in the summer sun. It’s like wanting to turn into a tiny bird and make a nest in Alexis’ sweet-smelling hair and live there forever. It’s having ridiculous thoughts like that and feeling completely justified in it. It’s her picking up her ukulele again, from its new home at Alexis’ house, and, while Alexis is in the shower, starting to play again. Starting to _sing._ It’s like Rachel has been living behind a lens, looking at her life from the outside, and now she finally gets to step into frame. She lets herself really _look_ , for the first time, at women – at the sweet curve of Twyla’s neck over breakfast, at Jess’ endless legs and Stevie’s strong thighs and Jackie’s killer calves as they sprint across the pitch during the post-championship mixed team ‘fun’ game, across the bar at Chris’ – my _god,_ the giant crush she has on Chris, which seems so embarrassingly obvious in every aspect – at Ronnie’s—okay, _not_ Ronnie, Rachel has too many ‘adopted mom’ feelings there that thinking about her any other way feels incredibly weird.

That aside, though, it’s hard to believe she never saw girls this way, before – but, as she really thinks about it, it’s hard to believe she never saw _guys_ this way, before. And her suspicions really crystallise when Alexis pins her to the bed and then moves south; this is not her first time on this ol’ rodeo, but it’s the first time she’s ever felt _this—_ “Alexis,” Rachel gasps out. Alexis hums in acknowledgement, and Rachel’s leg rabbits out at the feeling, narrowly missing kicking Alexis in the ribs. “ _Alexis,”_ Rachel repeats, more insistently, “Alexis, oh my god, hold on, I have to—” and Alexis’ head pops up from between her legs, huffing a few strands of hair out of her face that have escaped from her high bun, looking to her expectantly.

“You are—this is—” Rachel begins, trying to explain, but her thoughts have all poured out of her ears, hot honey slow, and all she can manage is, “Wow, I am really gay. Like, very, really gay. I am so, so in lesbians with you.”

Alexis smiles, soft and closed-mouthed, stretching sweetly at her cheeks. “Love that for you,” she murmurs, placing a kiss on the inside of Rachel’s knee, and then gets back to work.

Rachel knows about the last-minute surprise performance for Alexis’ graduation from Twyla, who’s getting off work early to take part in it. She has like, one iota of regret for not getting in on that, now that she feels like singing again, that she’s been slowly working her way up to do it in front of a crowd. Though, it’s not like she’s not getting another opportunity to do that tonight. But she’s getting ahead of herself.

“Hey, you,” Rachel says, capping the lens on her camera and sliding into a seat next to Alexis, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Enjoying the show?”

“Hey, you,” Alexis replies, smiling brightly. “Ugh, it’s the worst, like Fashion Week if all the designers just went to sleep. Can’t wait to get out of this robe, tonight.”

The implication there isn’t subtle. Rachel is so deeply happy for that. “I love that, for us,” she murmurs, “But the night isn’t over, yet.”

“Oh, do tell,” Alexis says, flirtatiously. Rachel takes a gentle hand to her chin, guiding it back to face the front of the stage, just as the Jazzagals take their places, Moira Rose front and centre singing _Baby, I’m Yours._ And it’s an honour and a privilege to have her own front row tickets to watch Alexis watch her mother sing to her, the soft surprised part of her mouth curving into a smile. And Rachel thinks about that _Sunrise Bay_ DVD, and about how some things need to burn, and some things just need to be upcycled, overwritten with something new. But she’s getting ahead of herself.

“Okay, _now_ I’m getting this robe off,” Alexis says, tugging playfully at the collar of Rachel’s blouse as they head out into the parking lot, tucked into dark, fitted pants.

“You can get the robe off, but not the dress,” Rachel informs her, grinning. “Not yet. The night isn’t over. We’ve got another stop to make.”

“Did you, like, forget something over at Ronnie’s?” Alexis asks. “David’s got a thing tonight, like, for his birthday or something, so you can literally just be naked, it doesn’t even matter.”

“Like half my wardrobe is at your place, at this point,” Rachel points out, unlocking her car and jumping in the driver’s seat. “So, really, I’m good on that front. No, we’re actually going a little further afield.”

“We’re not, like, going to that like, couple’s spa up in Elmdale, are we?” Alexis asks, a little dubious, once they hit the road.

“Not _that_ far afield,” Rachel replies, then, singing it, “We’re going _just around the riverbend…”_

“Okay, good, because like five people I know have gotten food poisoning from there,” Alexis says, with some measure of relief. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel catches her smile. “I love that you’re singing all the time, now. Like my own little radio. With benefits.”

“Feel free to turn me on, anytime,” Rachel replies, waggling her eyebrows. “Any hot requests?”

Alexis throws out _Sexyback_ , and _Sex On Fire,_ and _Bad Romance_ – “Oh, I hope it’s not,” Rachel laughs, before launching into it – and it distracts her enough that she’s actually surprised when Rachel pulls up to the Wobbly Elm.

“Oh my god, _Rach_ , don’t tell me you have a shift tonight,” Alexis groans. “Please call Chris and get out if it, A-S-A-P.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Rachel says, dryly, offering Alexis a hand to pull her out of the car, only a little unsteady on her heels in the gravel, but a million bucks in her sparkly black dress.

Alexis sighs as they walk hand in hand up to the bar. “Fine, I will stay for _one_ drink, but if you’re on until close I am getting a cab and getting naked back at the motel by my—” And, as the doors swing open, _HAPPY GRADUATION ALEXIS!!!_ resounds from both the patrons inside and the very loud banner that Rachel had enlisted Jessica, with her height advantage, to help hang across the ceiling earlier.

“I told you this wasn’t a big deal,” Alexis says, in a kind of half-voice. But there’s that same soft surprise on her face that tells Rachel this is very much a big deal.

“Look, you have experienced, in your life, almost everything a person can experience,” Rachel says, squeezing her hand, “ _Except_ for a high school graduation party. And, I can promise you, as someone who did actually attend her one in high school, this one is _much_ more fun, because no actual high school kids can legally attend it.”

“Okay,” Alexis says, finally breaking into a smile. “I mean, if I _must_.”

“Go greet all your admirers,” Rachel says, giving her hand one more squeeze before letting go. “I’ve gotta go do a thing.”

She quickly moves through the crowd, waving at Chris at the bar, then heads around to the back section to the staging area, where David is very confidently belting out a Mariah Carey song on the karaoke setup.

“I got her tuned up and hooked up to the amp, so she’s ready to go when you are,” Cory says, jerking a thumb over to the sleek, black Fender on a stand off to the side of the stage. “Be gentle with her, though – she’s my baby. Don’t get too rock ’n roll up there.”

“Thanks, C,” Rachel says, pulling him into a hug. “I really appreciate this.”

“No sweat, shortstop,” Cory replies, with a slow smile. David hits somewhere in the vicinity of a high note, and he flicks his eyes across the stage. “You want me to, uh, cut him off?”

“Nah, it’s his birthday, he’s having fun,” Rachel replies. Another attempt at the whistle register is made, and Rachel winces. “On second thought, maybe we can get this show on the road.”

Rachel’s co-conspirators are a well-oiled machine – Cory gently plies David away from the mic with a promise of free fried stuff from the kitchen that Casey, advised by Stevie, is already prepping – Rick and Danny loudly (well, on Rick’s part) corral the crowd into the back section, while Jess and Twyla make sure is front and centre. “As you all know, tonight we are celebrating a very special person, someone you all know and love – Alexis Rose!” The crowd claps, and woops, and Alexis grins up at Rachel, snuggling into Twyla’s side. “Alexis, you are one of the best people I’ve ever known. On the first day we met, I gave you my phone. If I’m honest, I probably gave you my heart along with it. But enough about me,” Rachel says, taking her pick to the strings and starting to strum through the _awwws_ , “I think what we _all_ need… is a little bit Alexis.”

 _“I’m a Lamborghini, I’m a Hollywood star,”_ Rachel sings, going hard on the power chords, _“I’m a little bit tipsy, when I drive my car. I’m expensive sushi, I’m a huge cute yacht – I’m a little bit single, even when I’m not. I’m a little bit, I’m a little bit, I’m a little biiiit…. ALEXIS!”_

“Okay, that rock version of my song was amazing,” Alexis says, head propped up on Rachel’s stomach, later, when they’re finally a party of two, and still a little out of breath as they both come down from their own, private, celebration. “But that was not the song you’ve been humming all week. Admit it, you were totally practicing something else on Baby Guitar when I was in the bathroom the other day.”

“It’s—well, it’s not done, yet,” Rachel does admit. “I only really have the chorus—”

“Oh my god, I _knew_ it, you’re writing a song,” Alexis says. “Okay, now I have to hear it.” At Rachel’s “ _Please,_ Rach, you did say, this is my day. This is, probably, still my day.” She leans over the bed for a moment, fishing around for her phone, on the floor – there’s a flash of light as she checks the time, and then continues with, “Okay, it’s my tomorrow. Whatever. But _please._ For me?”

“I—ugh, that look should be classified as a lethal weapon,” Rachel mutters, retrieving the ukulele from its regular pride of place next to Alexis’ bed. She automatically plucks at the strings to check the tuning, a quick twist of a couple of pegs, then begins to strum – D, G, B minor, then back to G, running through the sequence a few times, before starting to sing.

“ _You’re a fire poppy, baby, gotta burn before you bloom, never knew that I was seeded, that I was waiting here for—race through the summer to get to second spring, ten years and a ring, threw it in the fire and the fire consumed, baby – I burned before I bloomed.”_

“Uh, and that’s it, so far,” Rachel says, letting her hand fall slack against the strings. “Like, obviously it’s rough. The middle bit, like – technically it would be _waiting here for you_ in a recording, but I obviously can’t fit in the _you_ before I have to jump to the next line. And I’m also not totally sold on the switch to E minor when I do it, but—”

“I love it,” Alexis cuts in, shimmying up the bed to snuggle up beside her. “I can’t wait to hear what comes next.”

Rachel smiles. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to these two articles from [UpRoxx](https://uproxx.com/tv/schitts-creek-alexis-rose-dating-history/) and [Esquire](https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/tv/a30613498/schitts-creek-best-alexis-rose-quotes-moments/) that saved me SO much time and energy, and to all the people I moaned to about this fic (if you know, you know) for putting up with me. 
> 
> (Also, pssst, there's an epilogue that I'm going to write that is going to tie this all together that didn't get done in time to make the cut, so, stand by for that!)


End file.
